


There Shall I Be

by philcollins



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars Episode VIII: The Last Jedi
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Domestic Fluff, Eventual Smut, F/M, Far From the Madding Crowd AU, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Idiots in Love, Longing, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, No Jedi, Oral Sex, Reylo - Freeform, Slow Burn, Smut, just troubled folks in space, no Dark Side, no Sith, the First Order doesn't exist, the Force doesn't exist, the Resistance doesn't exist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2018-04-05
Packaged: 2019-03-03 05:41:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 50,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13334655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philcollins/pseuds/philcollins
Summary: She remembers the first and only time she saw him smile like this before and how it didn’t touch his eyes at the time and how it broke her heart.Now it fills her heart and gives her life.She shoves him back onto their blanket and climbs on top of him. She pulls off her sweater and takes him inside her again and rides him into the night.***AU in which Rey, our lonely scavenger from The Force Awakens, meets Kylo Ren under very different circumstances - he's a shepherd on Jakku.Rey inherits an estate on the moon Ceathea and Kylo follows her there, works for her there, and soon encounters his hated old foe, Uncle Luke Skywalker.Will Rey ever accept Kylo's love? Will crusty old Luke Skywalker come between Rey and her true love?More familiar faces will make an appearance in this Force-free story of love, longing, angst, and anger.





	1. The Shepherd

**Author's Note:**

> “I shall do one thing in this life - one thing certain - that is, love you, and long for you, and keep wanting you till I die.”  
> ― Thomas Hardy, Far From the Madding Crowd (1874)

 

 

She gets home to find an intruder in her AT-AT eating her lonely, wilting spinebarrel flower right out of its tin can vase. She shrieks and grabs at the flower, trying to pull it out of the kessarch’s mouth, coming away with only the stem. The woolly beast looks up at her, slowly chewing her plant, clearly not understanding her flapping hand gestures as she tries to shoo the animal out. The thing _stinks_ \- manure and animal stank and filth. It’s stinking up her room.

 

“Out! Out! Shoo!”

 

She tries to push it out, the smell even more overwhelming this close. The beast doesn’t budge.

 

She knows whose livestock this is – the shepherd who made his homestead a few klicks east from her AT-AT. She doesn’t know what his flock feeds on out here – the very sand, it would seem. Sand and shit.

 

Two months ago, she’d heard at Niima Outpost about her new neighbor the shepherd, but she hadn’t met him until six days ago. She’d been on her speeder, returning home, and spotted a dark figure sitting atop a dune, looking out over a flock of black and white kessarch. She stopped and climbed the dune, calling out a friendly greeting as she climbed so he wouldn’t shoot her with a blaster. Reaching the top, she’d smiled down at him and stuck out her hand, introducing herself. She’d marveled at his dark tunic and dark cloak and dark trousers – how could he stand to wear _black_ in the desert?

 

He’d looked up at her hand, his eyes evaluating and flat. Her hand had hovered in the air, the moment getting awkward, but he hadn’t taken it. He hadn’t said anything to her. Just stared at her like he was willing her to go away. She’d dropped her hand and took the hint. “Okay then. Nice meeting you,” she muttered, easing her way back down the dune.

 

Now, she gives up trying to push the stinking kessarch and wonders if she can lure it out somehow when she hears beeping and chirping. A BB unit, brown with dust, rolls through her door, squawking and circling the kessarch. The kessarch bleats in protest but finally shifts itself, letting the BB unit herd it out. This must be the shepherd’s herding droid.

 

“That thing ate my spinebarrel,” Rey complains to the BB unit.

 

It chirps apologies at her, nudging the kessarch out the door.

 

“Well thanks and all,” she mutters, following the BB unit to the door, calling after it, “And tell your master to keep his stinking, filthy, mangy beasts on his own land where they belong!”

 

The last word dies on her tongue and she stops short. The shepherd is standing _right there_ , just outside her door. She almost ran face first into his chest, a wall of man. He’s tall, imposing in his dark clothes in a way he hadn’t been sitting on that dune. She steps back and meets his eyes, finding that same flat, evaluating stare, like he’s wondering what she’s doing in his world. She wonders if he even remembers having met her before.

 

“Your kessarch ate my only plant,” she snaps.

 

He stares at her, silent. Then he turns away, walking off, the stray kessarch and his BB unit following.

 

“Well?!” she calls after him, fuming.

 

“Technically this _is_ my land,” he calls over his shoulder, his voice as flat and cool as his stare. “You’re squatting.”

 

***

 

At Niima Outpost, Unkar Plutt confirms it – he’s the one who sold the shepherd that land. “What gives _you_ the right to sell that land to anyone?” she snaps at Plutt.

 

Plutt produces a contract scribbled on a dirty bit of cloth, something he’s clearly written himself.

 

“As if that’s legal or enforceable,” she seethes.

 

Plutt just laughs at her. “ _Who are you going to complain to, girlie_?”

 

***

 

She fully expects to come home one day to find all her stuff dumped in a pile in the sand or her AT-AT burned out completely. She takes to sleeping with her knife in one hand and her quarterstaff in her other, ready for when the shepherd comes back to kick her out of her home, forcibly remove her from “his land”. She won’t go without a fight.

 

She waits, ready.

 

She waits, still ready.

 

She waits. Still.

 

***

 

She stares up at a small patch of blue sky visible through the rusted out hole in the hull of the towering, impossibly huge carcass of the starship rising so high above her small body. Her broken leg throbs but she knows she’s probably going into shock now because she’s terribly cold and her leg doesn’t hurt as much as it did three hours ago when her rope failed and she fell. And it doesn’t hurt as much as it did an hour ago when she gave up trying to crawl outside.

 

So this is how she’s going to die. Alone, cold, missed by no one. Her dead body left to desiccate and disappear, swallowed up by the desert like she never existed at all. She’s always known she’s nothing, nobody, alone, unimportant and small in every possible way. So to end this way is fitting. She coughs out a hollow, bleak laugh even as salty tears slip down her temples and into her filthy hair. She’s exhausted. She only regrets that her parents will never find her if they ever come back to Jakku. She closes her eyes and lets sleep take her.

 

***

 

The afterlife is flames. They dance before her eyes. They warm her. They smell like Tarine tea, spicy and bitter.

 

In the afterlife, her leg hurts. A lot.

 

She groans.

 

Oh.

 

She’s not dead.

 

She’s lying before a small fire. There’s a heavy, scratchy blanket over her. It smells like animal.

 

“Sit up so you can drink this,” a flat, cool voice instructs. “It’ll help the pain.”

 

She grits her teeth and pushes herself up, assisted by two big hands under her armpits that shift her so she’s leaning against something looming and metal – the starship she was scavenging from, she realizes. She’s outside of it now.

 

Something hot is pressed into her hands. Spicy and bitter smelling. Tarine tea for real. She sips it. It’s too hot, it burns her tongue.

 

A dark figure in a black cloak sits down near her feet. He pulls the blanket back, revealing her mangled, swollen leg. It makes her wince, just looking at it. Her pant leg and her boot are gone and her limb is now splinted between two metal rods held in place with strips of cloth. The rods – probably taken from the starship.

 

“You broke your leg,” the shepherd says helpfully.

 

“I hadn’t noticed.” She blows on her tea and sips again, wanting the promised pain relief.

 

The shepherd pulls the blanket back down, keeping her warm. He pokes at the fire with a stick, stoking it higher. The cold metal at her back versus the fire’s heat along her front makes her shiver. The knowledge that she was surely going to die versus the sudden fact she’s _not_ dead has her shivering again.

 

“Thank you,” she says quietly, the words hard to get out past the hot stone in her throat. She stares into the fire. She _hates_ needing help, being helpless, being helped.

 

“Drink all of that down, Rey,” the shepherd replies, staring into the fire, too.

 

She looks at him now, surprised. He _was_ paying attention, then. She takes another swallow of tea, watching the firelight dance over the strange planes of his face. “How did you find me out here?”

 

“My flock is just over that dune,” he says, nodding out into the darkness beyond the fire. “My droid spotted your speeder and came to check it out. He found you.” The shepherd hesitates and Rey sees his jaw working, the muscles twitching. “He likes you.”

 

Rey smiles a little, hiding it in her cup. Clever little thing. “What’s his name?”

 

“BB-C4. He’s got a selenium drive and thermal hyperscan vindicator, internal self-correcting gyroscopic propulsion system, optics corrected to--“

 

“And what’s _your_ name, shepherd?” she interrupts.

 

He looks at her. His dark eyes are harder to read in the firelight, that flat and evaluating stare almost turned liquid by the flames. She shivers again.

 

“My name’s Kylo.”

 

TBC.


	2. The Speeder

 

She wakes to find the shepherd – _Kylo_ , rather – leaning close, his body over hers. He’s lifting the stinky blanket off her. She jerks on instinct, ready to defend herself, and the movement sends sharp heat down her leg. She gasps, helpless against the pain. “What are you doing?” she grinds out.

 

He stands, taking the blanket away, folding it. “You need to see a med droid.” He hands her a cup of tea. “Drink that and then we’ll go.”

 

It’s day now, she realizes. Midday, even. She’s slept long and hard, it seems. What’s in this tea, exactly? She sips it anyway, remembering the pain receding some last night. She watches the shepherd Kylo stuff the blanket and a few other supplies into his pack. She watches him shove dirt over the fire, making sure it’s extinguished. She watches him carry his pack toward her speeder.

 

“You don’t have to take me,” she tells him. He stops and looks at her in that way of his. Says nothing in that way of his. “You don’t have to leave your flock, I mean.”

 

“BB-C4 is with the flock.”

 

“Really, I can go by myself. I’ll be fine.”

 

He sets his pack down. “All right.” He nods once.

 

She squints, expecting more of an argument or more insistence or...something, she’s not sure what. But she gets it – he just wants to be rid of her.

 

She gulps down the last of the tea and tosses him the empty cup. She girds herself and pushes herself up against the hull of the starship, hands sliding against the metal, her good leg digging into the sand. Her bad leg throbs but she gets upright, leaning against the hull. She squeezes her eyes shut against the pain and takes a minute to catch her breath.

 

“Can you hand me my—“ The shepherd Kylo is already pressing her quarterstaff into her hand before she finishes the question. “Thanks,” she says. She grips her staff tight and takes a few deep breaths. The shepherd Kylo stands near, watching, but she will _not_ ask him for any more help.

 

Every hop toward her speeder on her good leg jostles her bad leg and by the time she makes it, flinging herself heavily on the hot metal fuselage, she’s covered in sweat and panting like she’s been sprinting over the dunes. Her bad leg is _on fire_ , every rapid beat of her heart pounding through her leg. She’s lightheaded.

 

“All right?” the shepherd Kylo asks behind her.

 

“Mmhmm,” she hums, high-pitched, unable to speak.

 

All she’s got to do now is hop up into the seat and swing her bad leg over. It seems...higher than she remembers. She’s exhausted. She grips the seat and gets her good foot up, which presses her broken leg against the speeder and she almost screams. Instead she curses loudly through gritted teeth.

 

“Need help?”

 

She grinds her molars. There’s no way she can swing her bad leg up and over the seat. She can’t move it. She can’t do this. “Maybe just a boost.”

 

Again, those big hands of his grab her under the armpits and lift her up all too easily and she’s there, she’s on the speeder’s seat. Sidesaddle. She can’t operate the thing like this and she can’t move. But maybe Kylo the shepherd doesn’t know that. She looks at him, managing a big smile, showing her teeth. “Great. Thank you. I appreciate everything.”

 

“Sure.” He’s just standing there.

 

“I’m sure you want to get back to your flock, so...thanks again.”

 

He nods. He isn’t walking away.

 

“Bye, then.”

 

“Drive carefully.” He’s staring at her, waiting. She’s getting good at reading the blank stares that grace his strange, lean face because he seems amused.

 

She presses her lips together.

 

He stares at her.

 

They neither one move.

 

She’ll do this all day if she has to.

 

“All right, enough,” he mutters, picking up her abandoned staff and jamming it into the netting strapped to the side of the speeder. He picks up his pack and she thinks she’s won – he’s leaving. Rather, he shoves his pack into the netting, too.

 

“What are you—“

 

He ignores her and is hoisting himself onto the seat behind her, swinging his leg over. It’s a speeder seat built for one – she built it, _she’s_ the one. She’s practically in his lap, his bulky body pressed against her. She squawks like BB-C4. “Really, I’m fine!”

 

He leans over her, engulfing her. Her face is jammed against his neck. She squawks again – she doesn’t do proximity, she’s not used to it. He grabs the controls and starts the engine. “Hang onto me,” he says flatly. His voice rumbles through her.

 

She balls up her fists, refusing – she’ll fall off and break her other leg just to spite him.

 

The speeder jerks forward under his inexperienced hands and she yelps, almost falling off, grabbing onto him, dignity gone gone gone. Her hands grab his broad chest. He drives faster than she does even - terrifying. She digs her fingers into his black tunic and holds onto him for dear life.

 

***

 

The tea is working but the turbulence jostles her bad leg constantly and she tries to focus on the pain because she doesn’t want to focus on the heat of his skin where her face is pressed against his neck. She doesn’t want to focus on the way he smells there – sweaty and dusty and dirty and like hot skin. She doesn’t want to focus on how his body feels under her hands – all muscle, hard and yielding, too big.

 

The tea is working because she feels warm and sleepy.

 

***

 

Seeing the med droid will take months off her healing time, but it’s not cheap. And she has no credits. The med droid only takes credits.

 

Kylo the shepherd pays.

 

“I’ll pay you back. With interest,” Rey promises.

 

“Fine.”

 

She has no idea how she’ll repay him at the moment. She gets paid in food rations, not credits.

 

***

 

The sun is setting over the dunes by the time they get back to her AT-AT. She’s tired and the pain injection the med droid gave her is making her even foggier. So she doesn’t squawk when he pulls her into his arms and carries her inside her hut. He gently sets her down on her narrow cot and straightens up, looming over her, too big for her cramped, personal space.

 

He’s looking around, taking in the bits of her life, and she doesn’t know what to say. She’s thanked him far too many times (and not nearly enough) today. “Are you hungry?” At least she can do that for him. She hopes he’ll say no and leave.

 

He looks outside and tugs back his long, dark hair with one hand. She’s seen him do that a few times over the past day, when he’s thinking. He’s thinking what she’s thinking - it’ll get dark fast now and it’s a long way back to his flock, with or without her speeder – which she won’t be lending him. They’re both thinking he’s going to stay here tonight.

 

“I’ll start a fire,” he answers, taking a step toward the door.

 

“I have a burner.” She starts to push herself up off the bed. “I have portion bread. And soup.”

 

“I’ll do it,” he offers.

 

Her will to argue has been worn down by the long day. So she watches him move about, preparing dinner, stirring soup. She watches him notice the hash marks scratched into her wall – her tally of solitude. “Why are you doing all this?” she asks suddenly.

 

He glances at her over his shoulder like he forgot she was there. “Because you’re my...” She holds her breath a brief moment, not sure how he’s going to finish that sentence. “Squatter.”

 

She thinks that was him trying to be funny or something but she’s not sure. She doesn’t push for a real answer. She’s afraid to.

 

There’s nowhere for him to sit in here, except on her bed with her, so she makes him take their food outside when it’s done. She hops herself out, refusing his help with that just for good measure. The sun is gone but the sky is beautiful – streaked with red and pink and violet – and they eat in silence, watching it.

 

He does build a fire, later, and it chases away the dark, like it did outside the hull of the starship. When she shivers, he gets up silently and fetches the blanket from her bed and drops it in her lap.

 

“Are you going to evict me?” she asks eventually.

 

“No.”

 

She pulls her blanket tight around her shoulders. She doesn’t ask _why_ he won’t evict her. And she doesn’t offer to start paying him rent because she obviously _can’t_ pay. Things slip and slide into place in her head, darkly, making her feel sick, and she knows why he won’t evict her:

 

He can take his rent from her in another way.

 

She knows lots of folk here use their bodies as a form of payment. She never has and doesn’t want to. Her stomach churns. This man could make her pay. If he wants to. He could take whatever he wants from her. He could own her. She’d fight him, but he’s big and he’s strong. She’d try to run, but right now she can hardly hobble.

 

She pushes herself up, balancing on her good leg, leaning on her staff. He looks up from the bit of stitching he’s doing, fixing a tear in his cloak. “You’ll need a crutch.”

 

She nods. “I’ll cobble one together.” She has so much junk around here, it’ll be easy.

 

“You built that speeder.” Not a question. She nods. “It’s fast.”

 

Maybe she can build him something, pay him that way, instead of the other way. It would take time though. And he might not want to wait.

 

He’s watching her. His tunic is gaping, showing his neck, showing his collarbone, some chest, all painted gold by the firelight. She remembers the warmth of his neck, the smell of his skin, the feel of his body. If he wants payment from her body, maybe...maybe it wouldn’t be so very bad? Maybe he’d be...something. Not cruel about it, not violent about it? He doesn’t seem cruel. Lots of folk do it. Maybe she could do it. It’s not a big deal.

 

Her stomach hurts, pinching. She turns away. “Good night,” she mumbles, hopping inside her hut.

 

***

 

She lies stiffly on her cot. She can see the glow from the fire. She hears the rustle of his clothes as he gets up. A soft sound – his feet shuffling in the sand. Something further away, it takes her a moment to identify it – he’s pissing. Then his feet shuffling in the sand again, coming back. Coming closer. The rustle of his clothes.

 

Her knife is clutched in her hand.

 

The glow from the fire fades.

 

She waits, ready.

 

She waits, still ready.

 

She waits.

 

***

 

He leaves first thing in the morning, returning to his flock. She pretends to be asleep when he goes.

 

She didn’t sleep.

 

He never came to her. He slept outside.

 

She listened to him snore lightly all night long.

 

 

TBC.


	3. The Aurebesh

 

She solders together a pair of crutches from bits of conduit from a repulsorlift generator and sections of plumbing parts she stripped years ago from the inside of a Lancer-class frigate. It takes a day but she’s pleased – they’re easier to get around on than hopping with her staff.

 

She doesn’t expect to see the shepherd again anytime soon and she’s soon out of rations. She’ll have to get to Niima Outpost the next day, trade something. She thinks she can probably bear climbing onto the speeder now, in theory. She searches through her stash of junk for something, anything, of value. It’s slim pickings.

 

But then he’s there, appearing with the dusk, bringing rations, checking up on her.

 

She doesn’t go to Niima.

 

He’s back every couple of evenings, after long days afield, always with more food, and they sit by the fire, talking a little but not much. He stays the night each time, always sleeping outside by the fire.

 

She’s still waiting for the other shoe to drop, though. She lets herself sleep on those nights but lightly, her knife very handy and her body buzzing.

 

***

 

“Where are you from?” she asks one evening. “Not from Jakku.”

 

“No.”

 

He’s quiet for a long moment and she thinks he won’t answer. “I wanted my own farm, my own land. And Jakku’s cheap.” She snorts at that. “Everything I have is sunk into my livestock, my land. I’m mortgaged to the hilt.”

 

“Sounds risky,” she comments blandly, taken aback a bit by his frankness.

 

“Not if you know what you’re doing. Not if you’re motivated to make a go of it. Make something of yourself.”

 

She chews a piece of the pole-snake jerky he brought and thinks he must be mad to try to _make_ _something_ of himself here. Jakku is about survival, only that. The only folk who _make_ _something_ of themselves are the thieves and cheats, like Plutt. Kylo the shepherd - with his sewing and his extra rations and his woolly flock - doesn’t seem to be either.

 

***

 

“What are you wearing?”

 

She jerks, startled, not expecting him tonight, and quickly pulls the battered old fighter pilot helmet off her head, feeling caught, feeling childish. “Just something I found,” she answers lamely, shrugging.

 

He sits in the sand with her, at his usual spot by the fire pit. He reaches over and picks up the helmet, studies it for a moment. “Rey the fighter pilot.”

 

She smiles a little, sad. She’ll never get to see the stars up close. “Better than Rey the scavenger.”

 

He taps the side of the helmet, where the writing has worn and faded away. “You should write your name on it.” She looks away from him, plucking nonexistent threads from her tunic, and she’s pretty sure that gives her away because he says then, “Or I could do it.” She nods, still not looking at him. “Captain Rey...what?”

 

“I dunno,” she mutters.

 

“I didn’t hear.”

 

“I don’t know,” she snaps, louder, ashamed and angry. “I don’t know my surname. Rey Nobody. Rey Nothing.”

 

Her face feels too hot. She doesn’t raise it, just watches her fingers comb through the sand beside her wrapped, aching leg. He’s quiet for a long time but then she hears him grunt softly and she peeks from the corner of her eye.

 

He’s wearing the helmet. His long hair sticks out the bottom.

 

Now she stares, eyes wide.

 

He covers his mouth with his hand, distorting his voice as he says flatly, “Red Leader to Red Seven. Red Leader to Red Seven. Come in, Red Seven.”

 

She blinks.

 

Then she throws her head back and _howls_ with laughter. She almost pisses herself.

 

She thinks the corner of his wide, plush mouth lifts just the tiniest bit. But probably not.

 

***

 

He brings a little tin of yellow paint. Where the hell he got it from, she doesn’t know. He shows her the symbols that spell out her name, painting them carefully onto the helmet. He names the symbols for her. “Resh. Esk. Yirt. Rey.”

 

He shows her the symbols that spell his own name, painting them on a bit of scrap metal. “Krill. Yirt. Leth. Osk.” He paints his surname, too. He has one. “Resh. Esk. Nern.”

 

She looks between the bit of scrap metal and her helmet, comparing. She points to his surname. “Your symbols are almost the same mine,” she comments, tracing her finger over the dried paint.

 

He shows her all the symbols, naming each, painting the whole alphabet on the wall above her cot.

 

On the days he’s away, she traces her finger over the symbols again and again, naming each.

 

***

 

A dust storm kicks up one evening, so they hole up in her room and sit on her cot and he helps her practice her symbols. The tarp tacked over the door keeps the sand out, for the most part. Her lamp flickers, threatening to blow out with the draught every time the wind howls.

 

“What are those marks for?” he asks.

 

She looks up from the rusty piece of scrap she’s scratching on. He’s looking at her tally on the wall. She thinks about telling him some elaborate fiction or saying they don’t mean anything at all. He’d see through all that, though. “Those are all the days since my parents left me here on Jakku,” she answers, straightforward.

 

He blinks, still looking at the marks. She’s shocked him, she can tell, just from that blink. She’s never really told him how she got here.

 

“How old were you?”

 

“Young. I’m not sure.” She grimaces, eyeing the tally. “That’s not even an accurate count, to be honest. I only started it when I moved in here.”

 

He blinks again. He’s probably realizing that she has no real notion of her own age. No clue what her birthdate might be.

 

“They’re coming back for me,” she says way too brightly, nodding once.

 

He stares at her. Flat. Evaluating. Entirely skeptical.

 

It strips her naked. It strips her to the bone.

 

Her throat instantly tightens and her eyes burn. She drops her head and focuses hard on her symbols, trying to scratch out the next one. Shen. It blurs and bends and gets splashed with her fat tears. “Sorry. Sorry,” she chokes out, swiping at her eyes.

 

“Why are you apologizing?”

 

She shakes her head viciously. “Because! I told you already – I’m nobody, I’m nothing.”

 

He’s quiet. Agreeing with her, she reckons.

 

She tries to scratch out a _shen_ again.

 

“You’re not nothing, Rey.”

 

Her head snaps up and she meets his gaze. Flat, evaluating, entirely earnest, liquid, deep. His Adam’s apple bobs. “Not to me, you’re not.”

 

He’s knifed her through and through. She tries to curl up on herself, the pain squeezing her insides. He won’t let her collapse, his long fingers coming up under her chin, making her look at him. “Not to me.”

 

She tries to shake her head. He won’t let her. His thumb brushes at her fresh hot tears. His thumb brushes over her lip, wets it. She tastes salt and dust.

 

He leans closer. His hand is warm and enormous on her face. He could squeeze a little and her skull would crumble like a clod of dirt. She can barely breathe. She can’t think. Her skin buzzes.

 

His mouth touches hers. Impossibly soft. Warm. Strange. Overwhelmingly intimate. She’s never done this.

 

He does it again. Soft and warm, then firmer, pressing, moving a little, wetter. It’s not...unpleasant. She lets him do what he wants, not sure how to participate. His tongue touches her lips, soft and hot and slick, and she makes a little sound, startled.

 

She doesn’t know what to do, how to do this.

 

He does it again, coaxing, but she doesn’t know how to do this, she can’t move, and the buzzing swells up inside like panic. Is this it? Is it time for him to collect what she owes? He could. He could. She can’t she can’t she can’t--

 

He stops. His mouth slips away. His thumb strokes her cheek. “It’s okay,” he says quietly. His hand leaves her face. He gets up and starts making tea on her burner.

 

She looks back to her symbols, her face hot, her lips wet and tingling.

 

She isn’t quite sure why he stopped.

 

The wind howls outside. The tarp flutters. The lamp flickers.

 

***

 

The storm doesn’t die. He sleeps on the floor next to her cot – there’s nowhere else for him to stretch out.

 

The lamp is low. She studies his oddly fine profile. The slope of his forehead, the heaviness of his brow, the straightness of his nose, the peaks and valleys of his elegant mouth, the rise and fall of his strong chin.

 

Her knife is across the room, far out of reach.

 

She falls asleep still wondering why he stopped.

 

TBC.


	4. The Orkoonian Desert Glass

 

She can’t stop thinking about his mouth.

 

She knows she did it wrong that night. She should’ve mimicked what he was doing. Pressed and pulled and moved her mouth more. Opened her mouth a little. Let him touch his tongue to hers. She wonders if he will try to kiss her again next time he comes. If she could just relax, maybe it would be okay.

 

Or...she could take the initiative next time. She could kiss him first, not wait. She thinks about his hair. She could touch his hair. She thinks about his neck, his skin there. She could kiss his mouth, kiss his jaw, kiss his neck. She would like that.

 

It might be better if she gives him what he’s owed but on _her_ terms. Not wait for his patience to run out. Not wait to be forced.

 

***

 

He’s been gone a few days longer than usual and she’s been a bundle of nerves - wondering what he’ll do, what she’ll do.

 

If she’s honest with herself, she wishes they could just sit by the fire - talk or not, sew and tinker and practice symbols - without this _thing_ hanging over them.

 

When she again spots his dark form in the distance, she hobbles back into her hut and puts the burner on, gets their dinner going. Her stomach is too nervous for her to eat anything. She sweeps the floor and remakes her bed and rearranges trinkets that don’t need rearranging. She’s scrubbing a dust cloth over every bit of horizontal surface she can find when the light in her hut shifts, dims. His big body fills the doorframe.

 

“Hi,” she chirps too loudly, too high-pitched. She clears her throat. “Food’s almost done.”

 

The light is behind him, so she can’t read his face, shadows veiling it. He doesn’t say anything. She feels like her every thought is scrolling across her own face so she turns away and fusses with their dinner dishes, giving the bowls another fearsome polish. She can feel him watching her.

 

“Rey.”

 

Her stomach makes a funny turn. “Hmm?” She focuses on stirring the soup.

 

The light shifts again as he steps inside. “I have something for you.”

 

She hears his heavy pack plop down onto the floor and she finally looks, curious. He’s bent over, carefully lifting something out from the very top of the pack, something wrapped in cloth. He straightens up, unwrapping it.

 

It’s a sprout, no longer than her middle finger, a clump of dirt attached to its roots. She recognizes it immediately.

 

“A spinebarrel!” she gasps, amazed, coming closer.

 

“To replace the one my kessarch ate,” he explains. He holds it out, cupped in his big hands. She cups her own much smaller hands and he gently transfers it, his skin brushing her palms. “I thought you could plant it, watch it grow.”

 

“Wherever did you find it?” she asks, lifting the little thing into an empty tin cup. She dribbles in some water from her canteen.

 

He doesn’t answer her, bending back over his pack, pulling out something else. “And this is for you,” he says, holding out a little pot. It’s more paint, a bright, vibrant pink she’s only seen in the sky at dusk.

 

She takes it, amazed again. “Where the hell do you find paint, Kylo Ren? No one has paint, not even Unkar Plutt.”

 

His dark eyes dance a little – that’s him smiling – but he doesn’t answer. His little secrets. He reaches into his pack again and unearths another treasure, this one even rarer – a thin book made of actual paper. She gasps again, she can’t help herself.

 

She’s seen a book once – someone was selling it at Niima, marketing it as paper to wipe your ass with. This one is a bit ragged and water-stained, a bit fragile in her hands, but its cover is still colorful – little children in clean clothes with clean hair sitting at desks learning their symbols. She opens it carefully, finding drawings inside of animals and household objects and items of clothing and pieces of food, most of it familiar, some of it not, like the book came from a far-off world much better supplied than this one.

 

“Spelling exercises,” he explains, pointing at the parts where she’d fill in symbols to make words for the pictures.

 

“This is too much,” she murmurs, smoothing her hand over the colorful cover. It must’ve cost a small fortune, which she knows he doesn’t have.

 

Again he doesn’t answer, just stares at her as he tugs at the neckline of his black tunic and pulls something over his head – a necklace – a leather thong with a pendant hanging off. He dangles it off his finger and it catches the light from outside, glowing yellow-green. It’s translucent and irregularly shaped, lashed to the leather thong with the thinnest of wire. Orkoonian desert glass - birthed from the high-energy impact of meteors into sand, melting it, making bits of glass. It’s from the other side of the planet and almost impossible to find these days, she knows.

 

“I found it, made it into a necklace,” he explains.

 

“It’s beautiful,” she whispers, touching the glass with her finger, making it swing. “You could trade this for, like, two months’ rations.”

 

He takes her hand, turning it, pooling the necklace into her palm. “I hope you won’t.”

 

“Oh no, never!” she assures him, shaking her head. The nerves are back in her belly, strong. She takes a shaky breath. “I’ve never... No one has ever given me such nice things. Not ever.”

 

He’s quiet for a long moment and she peeks up at his face. Impassive as ever but she catches how his Adam’s apple bobs a few times. “On some worlds,” he starts quietly, “a man gives a woman a ring with a precious, chiseled stone in it when he asks her to marry him. But I didn’t think a ring would be very practical. Desert glass isn’t a precious stone, I know, and I didn’t have a way to shape it, but I hope it will do.”

 

She stares up at him, her brain feeling totally empty and way too crowded at the same time. What did he say? “Are you asking me to marry you?” she blurts out stupidly, not thinking because she’s so caught off guard, so confused.

 

“Yes.”

 

Not what she expected. Ever.

 

Her brain is blank.

 

She has no idea what to say.

 

She’s just staring.

 

He clears his throat.

 

She still can’t speak.

 

He speaks.

 

“I should be able to grow my flock by twenty-two percent over the next year, after the ewes give birth in spring. Maybe as much as thirty percent if all the lambs suckle well. But usually there’s a two to eight percent mortality rate during birthing season. I have ten good tups right now. I’m going to sell them at the Coruscant livestock exchange this winter. A good tup can fetch thousands of credits, easy. I can probably expect to make thirty thousand credits, at least. I’d like to take you with me to Coruscant but I can’t this winter, I’d need you in the fields while I’m gone. But next year, we’d be able to afford a helper so you could come with me. Coruscant is...nothing like here. You’d enjoy it.”

 

She’s never heard him speak so much at once. “What’s a tup?” she asks stupidly. It’s all she can think to say.

 

“A male kessarch.”

 

“Oh.”

 

He’s staring down at her, waiting, but she can’t look at him.

 

A useful thought finally enters her head – a simple, clear thought: This is what she’s been waiting for.

 

He’s come to collect what he’s owed. He’s come to possess her. Own her. Just not the way she expected.

 

She should say yes. They would have a home together, scrape out their life together in the desert. Children would come soon enough. Family.

 

She’s seen women at Niima Outpost with their children. Hungry, tired looking, dried up women with hard, hollow eyes, women bent over from the grinding work of feeding extra mouths.

 

She still feels like a child herself, longing for her mother’s milk.

 

She finally raises her face to him, smiling too wide. Her voice is cheerful when she answers. “I shouldn't mind being a bride at a wedding. If I could be one without having a husband.”

 

His face remains as still as ever. She carries on, drilling down into her intentional flippancy, almost daring him to lash out.

 

“But a woman can't show off in that way by _herself_ , can she? That would be ridiculous. No, in truth I don’t think I’ll ever marry. I have no desire to. It wouldn’t suit me at all.” She smiles again, stretching it drum tight. “I hope you can understand, Kylo.”

 

If he hit her across the face and threw her onto the bed and shoved his cock inside her, she’d understand and it would hurt less than the look he’s giving her now – so quietly broken, imperceptible to anyone else but her – as he says, “I understand.”

 

And then he smiles for the first time. Perhaps ever in his whole life, she’s not sure. His smile is closed-lipped and wide and dimples his lean face and is achingly beautiful and it doesn’t reach his eyes one little bit.

 

It breaks her heart.

 

He nods once and turns away and leaves her hut, taking his pack as he goes.

 

She blinks and feels nothing but crushing shame.

 

***

 

He’s half a klick away before she manages to catch up some, hobbling as fast as she can on her crutches in the unhelpful sand, rubbing her armpits raw with the effort.

 

“Kylo!”

 

He finally hears her and stops, turning. He waits as she hobbles closer, still hurrying, her cloth sack bouncing off her ass. He’s not smiling anymore. “I don’t know how to be a wife,” she says without preamble, still breathing hard from her “run”. He seems confused by that, as though she was saying she hadn’t yet read the textbook on the subject and wasn’t prepared for the final exam. She swallows and tries to catch her breath. “What I mean is... What I mean is I’ve never even had a _friend_ before.” She bites her lip and finally says what she’s been too scared to say all these weeks. “I know I owe you a lot. So much. And I have no way to pay you back. Except...except...”

 

Here he reaches out, grabbing her shoulder hard, fingers pressing hard into her flesh. She flinches a little bit but he doesn’t let go. “No,” he says flatly, stern. “You don’t owe me anything, Rey. Not now, not ever.” He gives her shoulder a little shake, like he’s trying to dislodge the notion from her. “Not a damn thing.”

 

She searches his face and sees truth there in the wide planes. Tears spring to her eyes and relief floods through her, the tension she’s been carrying for weeks pushed out and puddling at her feet. She sags into her crutches, into his grip on her.

 

“You’re my first friend,” she says, her voice cracking. “I just want you to be my friend.”

 

He squeezes her shoulder, gentler now. “Always.”

 

She smiles for real this time, pleased, relieved. Her friend. She could hug him.

 

But there’s something else she must do. She reaches behind her, tugging her cloth sack around, reaching inside. Her hand closes over the desert glass first and she pulls it out, holding it out to him. “I should give you these things back, since I, uh...”

 

“They’re yours,” he insists, refusing the offer. He squeezes again. “Belated birthday presents, we’ll say.”

 

She smiles a little and closes her hand over the bit of glass. “Or early birthday presents, who knows?”

 

***

 

He stays that night as usual and he goes back to his flock in the morning and she assumes she’ll never see him again.

 

She believes him, trusts him when he says he’s her friend, but... She might not know men but she knows folk. Folk don’t tend to come calling much when they can’t get what they want.

 

But he’s back two nights later. Just like always. They sit by the fire. He sews, she tinkers, they talk a little bit about nothing special.

 

TBC.


	5. The Holovid

From the ground up to about two hundred meters, everything worth anything has been stripped from this Dreadnought. Above two hundred meters, she knows there are corridors of holds still full of the daily goods needed to accommodate the thousands of people who used to staff this thing. Strange items like soap for the hair and razors for the face and goo for cleaning teeth and cottony suppositories for staunching one’s monthly flow and viscous creams to keep skin soft.

 

She’s interested in those cottony suppositories. She shoves stained old rags up there when she bleeds, messy and uncomfortable. She might be interested in the skin cream, too.

 

Razors and soap and cream and whatnot aren’t worth much, not in Unkar Plutt’s book anyway. The real prizes are higher still – breaker panels and navigation circuitry and power converters. Even better, higher still, perched thousands of meters above her head, is the geodesic communication dome. A treasure trove.

 

She tilts her head way back, just able to see the dome, a tiny bubble from here. It’s unbearably high. She shivers violently and remembers free-fall, remembers crunching bone.

 

The thought of being just two hundred meters up has her heart pounding, her palms sweaty, her mouth dry. She used to do this all the time without a second thought. Now she’s hesitating.

 

She’s been exercising her bad leg, building the strength up after the wraps came off, but right now it feels wobbly as hell as she considers the distance up to the storage holds.

 

She can’t leave empty-handed. She needs to start trading again. Taking care of herself again. Her leg is healed. Her days as Kylo Ren’s ward have to end sometime.

 

She wipes her palms on her tunic and starts to climb.

 

***

 

She’s weary and sweaty and filthy by the time she loads her speeder and sets off for Niima Outpost. She can hardly hold the speeder controls, her hands and limbs shaking from exhaustion and nerves.

 

She’s gotten soft over the past couple of months. She forgot how much bloody hard work this is, doing this day in, day out. Just to feed herself.

 

She tries to imagine doing this when she’s fifty and getting wrinkly. She tries to imagine climbing up into the bowels of starships when she’s seventy and gray-haired and ravaged by arthritis. She tries to imagine her future here.

 

***

 

Unkar Plutt has a message for her – something recorded on a holovid. It came weeks and weeks ago but he’s been sitting on it, not bothering to send word to her that it’s been here, waiting.

 

“You’re sure it’s for me?” she asks again, bewildered, no clue what the message could be.

 

He won’t give it to her for free. She has to choose – she can have rations tonight or she can have the holovid. It’s no choice at all, is it? She takes the holovid.

 

She forgot about this part, too – the precariousness of this kind of life, being subject to Plutt’s whims all the time, perhaps going hungry on many a night because she can’t produce the goods.

 

***

 

“This message is for the girl called Rey, last known to be living on Jakku in the vicinity of Niima Outpost. My name is Orion Tripp, I’m a lawyer on the planet Nevoota, in the Balmorra system.

 

“Miss Rey. Your paternal grandfather Marle Winter-Moth passed away this week at his home on the moon Ceathea, also in the Balmorra system. You have been named in his will as his sole remaining heir.

 

“Mr. Winter-Moth’s estate includes eighty-thousand five hundred twenty-six credits and Stardew Grange, which totals five thousand six hundred fifteen hectares, its livestock, crops, inventory, equipment, out-buildings, and the contents of the property’s manor house. I am happy to provide a complete and detailed inventory of the estate for your files.

 

“Mr. Winter-Moth’s son, your father, Zeally Winter-Moth, and his common-law wife Ami Kain are dead. There are no other claims on the estate. I am happy to provide a copy of the full will and testament for your files.

 

“Please contact my office at your earliest convenience to arrange transfer of the property into your name. My office can assist with any and all necessary arrangements, whether you decide to take up the management of Stardew Grange or decide to liquidate the estate.

 

“I’m sorry for your loss, Miss Winter-Moth, and I look forward to hearing from you soon.”

 

***

 

She watches the holovid five times in a row.

 

She can’t take it all in and her parents are dead.

 

***

 

She shows it to Kylo when he gets home that evening. He makes her play it twice for him. She watches his face while he watches it. His face gives nothing away, not even to her trained eye.

 

“Well?” she prompts when it’s over.

 

He’s quiet for a long time, staring at the holovid player.

 

It’s the end of a hard day. She’s exhausted, entirely drained. She needs her friend to think for her right now. “What should I do, Kylo?”

 

He looks up finally, right at her, that flat gaze still giving nothing away. “Sell your speeder and buy a seat on the next transport shuttle off Jakku. Go to the Balmorra system. Take up your inheritance. Stardew Grange, it’s yours. Run it, make it grow.”

 

What does _she_ know about farming? A thousand questions occur to her all at once, colliding over one another on her tongue. “But what--how do I--what if I--”

 

He picks up the holovid player, turns it over in his big hands. “Start a new life there. A better life. You deserve it.”

 

“But I can’t--“

 

He reaches out, putting the holovid into her hands. “You can, Rey Winter-Moth.” He squeezes her hands around it, pressing warmth into her skin and bones. She wants him to hang onto her but he withdraws. His Adam’s apple bobs. “There’s nothing for you here.”

 

She sucks in a sharp, quick breath, like she’s cut her finger on a raw metal edge.

 

He looks away, to the fire. She looks away, to the holovid player. She resists the urge to play it again. She’s memorized it.

 

“Join me.” It’s out of her mouth before she’s even thought over the words. She repeats herself, louder. “Join me. Come with me. To Stardew Grange. Help me. I don’t know anything about farming.”

 

She reaches out, wanting his hand in hers. Wanting him with her.

 

“Please, Kylo.”

 

He’s staring at her hand. Her heart is thumping in her ears. It’s been a lead weight in her chest since she first watched the holovid.

 

He’s staring at her hand. It’s trembling a little, waiting for him.

 

He’s staring at her hand. Then he takes it, so engulfing, his warmth back where it belongs. Her heart lifts. She breathes.

 

“My place is here, Rey,” he says quietly. He squeezes her hand again, once, brief, and lets go. “My land is here. My flock. My farm. All I have. It means...everything. I hope you understand.”

 

She doesn’t she doesn’t she doesn’t she doesn’t she doesn’t she doesn’t she doesn’t _don’t leave me_ \--

 

“I understand.”

 

***

 

They don’t talk. He doesn’t sew. She doesn’t tinker. They just sit.

 

Her parents are dead. They left her here, alone. She’s been _so_ alone.

 

Until Kylo Ren plucked her off her deathbed and brought her back to life.

 

But now she’s alone again.

 

Anger starts to build inside her like a wall. Brick by brick, she lets it rise, protective and familiar. But it’s exhausting, her anger, and she’s already so tired tonight.

 

She curls up on the sand, too worn to drag herself away from the fire. She falls asleep.

 

***

 

She wakes vaguely. The fire is almost out, embers before her eyes. She’s still warm though. Warm all down her back, around her belly. Warm arm holding her, heavy and solid. Warm mouth on the back of her neck, warm breath tickling. She shivers. His arm tightening, pulling her closer. His warm body, so big and strong. Warm lips moving on her neck, whispered words: “It’s all right.”

 

It is all right. For right now at least. She closes her eyes. Sleeps.

 

***

 

The transport shuttle is done boarding, all the passengers seated. The last of the cargo is being loaded. She stands a hundred feet away on the packed dirt tarmac, clutching her cloth sack. She can’t board yet.

 

She’s been busy these last couple of days. She’d had to pack up her belongings – it didn’t take long, that. Her helmet, her little fighter pilot doll, her spelling workbook, her spinebarrel plant, the last of her yellow and pink paint (she’d been sprucing up the AT-AT with some color), a few other bits and bobs, all the cottony sanitary suppositories she could carry, even some hair soap. She’d had to sell her speeder, haggling fiercely with Plutt for a better price. She’d had to arrange a space on the next shuttle. She’d had to send word back to the lawyer on Balmorra that she’s coming.

 

Now it’s time to go. She’s going to see the stars. She’s going to see new worlds. She should be excited.

 

Her eyes scan the surrounding desert, watching for a dark figure.

 

Her anger, forgotten while she slept in Kylo’s arms, built again the morning after. She’d eyed him, impersonating his flat gaze as best she could but unable to keep the sneer out of her voice when she’d said, “When things don’t work out for you here, shepherd, I’d be happy to give you a job.”

 

She shouldn’t have said it, she knew that immediately. But she hadn’t backed down.

 

He’d wished her good luck and told her goodbye and didn’t touch her and turned away and walked into the dunes.

 

But he’ll come now, she’s sure of it, he’ll come to see her off properly, hug her and kiss her goodbye--

 

Behind her, the shuttle’s engines whine to life, kicking up dust. The cargo bay doors are hissing closed.

 

She turns around and around, scanning the distance.

 

Someone shouts. She looks – the shuttle co-pilot at the passenger bay door, beckoning to her. She has to go.

 

For the first time, he’s not shown up just when she needs him.

 

TBC.


	6. The Blue Shadow Virus

 

The fire is almost out, only embers. But he’s warm. Warm all down his front where her small body is pressed up against him. She’s warm in his arms. Her mouth soft and warm on his and her tongue hot against his. His arms tighten around her, deepening their kiss and trying to pull her closer closer closer.

 

Then her clothes are off and so are his. She’s on her back on top of her blanket, touching herself, one hand moving between her legs, the other on her breast. He can’t move. All he can do is stare at her naked body. Taut and smooth, pert and ripe, strong and soft. Golden where the last of their firelight touches her, pale where the moonlight does. She chases her pleasure, brow creased, teeth sunk into her lip, head twisting in the sand.

 

“Do you like watching me do this?” she seems to ask him.

 

He does.

 

“Don’t you want to touch me?” she seems to ask.

 

He does.

 

He’s so _desperate_ to touch her. He’ll explode if he doesn’t. He’s frantic to replace her hand on her tit with his mouth - kiss her pink nipple tenderly, lick it, suck it, bite it. He’s thirsting to replace her hand on her cunt with his own hand, put his fingers deep inside her, move them inside her body and make her writhe against him, make her moan, watch her lovely face at her most intimate moment.

 

He’s going to fucking die if he doesn’t touch her right fucking now--

 

“No,” she seems to say. “You can only watch.”

 

***

 

He wakes on the dune – it’s still dark, his flock a bunch of dark blobs in the moonless night. He’s hard, his cock throbbing painfully. He has to finish, has to come. He shoves his loose trousers down and grabs his cock and strokes himself vigorously, trying to get this over with, feeling gross and pathetic and ashamed. His soft grunts and the flat slapping sound of his own skin-on-skin make him sick. He comes to the _impression_ of Rey’s naked body more than a lasting image of it, his dream fading fast.

 

He hates sullying his memory of her and the memory of that night holding her so sweetly and innocently by the dying fire. She was mad at him the next morning and she hurt him deeply with her implication that he would fail here on Jakku. He was angry and already missing her bitterly, so he didn’t see her off, but none of that, _nothing_ , can tarnish the memory of that last night - except his own base lust.

 

She would be disgusted if she knew, if she could see him like this.

 

But it’s not the first time he’s spilled his seed in the sand thinking of her.

 

***

 

He carries on. He trudges over the dunes. He eats dried reptile meat. He sleeps on the cold sand. He wakes with the sun. He carries on.

 

BB-C4 chirps at him, nudges his legs, bleeps strange little songs at him, squawks dirty robot jokes at him – anything to try to cheer him up. It doesn’t really work.

 

***

 

He crumbles. He’s been avoiding it. But he can’t stay away. There’s no reason for him to go there, he’s just some sort of masochist.

 

He slogs through the sand, each lumbering step heavier than the last. His heart sinks lower and lower as it comes into view – Rey’s abandoned AT-AT.

 

He’d started to think of it as home, in a way. Maybe it was just Rey, though – _she_ was his home.

 

He drags himself up to her door and there hesitates. Why is he here? Why is he here? He should just leave.

 

He steps over the threshold, blind in the dimness after being in the bright desert, his eyes slow to adjust. He’s gripped by the smell of soup and portion bread cooking on the hob, his memories totally overpowering the present. His eyes adjust enough and he can see the symbols he painted on her wall, the designs she’d started painting in pink, her striped blanket spread over the narrow bed, her dusty leather boots and ropey sandals lined up against the wall.

 

He turns, hearing her step into the hut now, sand scuffing under her feet. Her name is on his lips.

 

He freezes.

 

It’s not her.

 

The figure freezes at the door. A stocky figure. A man. Short. Hairless.

 

The smell of soup and bread – not a memory. The boots – too big, too heavy. The sandals – she never had any, did she? Her blanket didn’t have stripes. Other things – strange clothes, strange tools, strange dishes, strange trinkets.

 

“What are you--“

 

“Get out!” Kylo bellows, instantly enraged, cutting off the stocky man’s question and stomping toward him.

 

The stocky man cowers and skitters back a little, squeaking, “But this is my--“

 

He shoves hard and the stocky man stumbles backward, tripping on the lip of the doorframe and landing on his ass. Kylo grabs up the man’s heavy boots and sandals, rips the striped blanket off the cot, and flings it all at the man, towering and looming and crowding him out of the hut.

 

“The rest of my things--“

 

Kylo grabs the front of the man’s tunic and screams right into his flabby face, “ _Get the fuck out of here_ _now_!”

 

The man scrabbles away and scrambles to his feet, takes off running across the sand.

 

Kylo swings around and starts thrashing. The soup pot and portion bread go flying, splatter against the wall. Bowls and plates and cups smash to bits against the floor. Trinkets disappear into every dark corner and out the door, into the sand. Clothing becomes shreds.

 

He breathes hard, looking for more destruction. The cooking burner is still on. He lurches forward, ready to knock it over and set fire to this place, burn it out so no one can use it ever again.

 

But there – pink and yellow stars painted on the front of the burner unit, incongruous and cheery against the rusty metal.

 

He flops onto the bare, thin mattress and tries to breathe in the last of Rey’s scent still clinging to the rough canvas ticking.

 

***

 

He moves into the AT-AT the next day, bringing in his few belongings and cleaning up the mess he made.

 

***

 

He stirs the soup pot and sprinkles in a bit of Tuanulberry powder. He likes the bitter taste, it makes the soup slightly less bland.

 

_Where the hell did you get Tuanulberry powder, Kylo Ren? Where do you get these things?_

“If I told you my secrets, you wouldn’t need me anymore.”

 

_Well that’s true._

Her face – that impish little grin, teasing him. He liked it when she teased him.

 

He pours soup into his bowl and sits on the cot, on top of his rough blanket.

 

Her face – her nose wrinkled up in distaste.

 

_This blanket smells like animal._

“So you’re always telling me, Rey.”

 

***

 

He leans close to the lamp so he can see his stitches.

 

_Where did you learn to sew anyway?_

“Boarding school.”

 

_What’s a boarding school?_

“It’s where disinterested parents send their children to keep them out of the way. Theoretically, learning takes place there, too.” He hesitates, then admits aloud, “I mostly only remember getting picked on because of my ears.”

 

_Well they do pick up radio transmissions, so..._

 

“Gee, I haven’t heard that one before.”

 

Her laugh – the way it dimpled her face, the way her white teeth would show.

 

“I didn’t have many friends,” he admits further. He’s never talked about any of this stuff before. “ _Any_ friends. I was the school punching bag. Until I got big. Then they were just afraid of me and steered clear.”

 

_So you were alone. Just like I was._

“Yeah, I guess you could say that.”

 

_To be fair, I’m not saying it, you are. I’m not even really here._

 

***

 

“It’s embarrassing.”

 

_Tell me. What does it even matter?_

“Fine. It was with a droid.”

 

_That’s disgusting! How do you even-- Wait, you mean a sex droid!?_

“Yes.”

 

_That’s disgusting. What was it like?_

“Disgusting. I just wanted to get it over with. I’ve been with real women, though. A couple of women. Very briefly. No more than a night. And they weren’t selling themselves, before you ask. They were just women. I never saw either of them again. I didn’t even know their names.”

 

_So you didn’t love them?_

“No, of course not.”

 

_I’ve never been with a man. Or a woman._

“I figured that out, Rey.”

 

_So tell me. Tell me what it’s like. Tell me what you like. Tell me what you’d do to me if I were there now. Tell me what you want me to do to you. Tell me how we’d fuck, Kylo._

“We wouldn’t fuck. We’d make love.”

 

_Tell me._

 

He licks his lips and describes every single vivid detail.

 

***

 

Liquor is far, far easier to come by on Jakku than flowering plants and colorful paint and Tuanulberries. And the liquor on Jakku is _strong_.

 

He takes advantage of these two facts when he decides, very deliberately, to shut Rey’s voice out of his head by getting rip-roaringly drunk. This decision comes not long after BB-C4 inquires whom he’s talking to while they’re moving the flock and if he might have sunstroke. It occurs to Kylo that a robot is giving him side-eye and he starts to question his own sanity.

 

He drinks two canisters of grain alcohol in a single short evening. He’s very drunk after the first canister. He’s entirely immobile after the second, numb in all his extremities. He does manage to vomit over the side of the bed rather than all over himself, however. That’s the last thing he remembers until he wakes slightly some time later to BB-C4 squealing and squawking and zipping around the hut in a frenzy. Kylo has a vague sense of BB-C4 needing...something, he’s not sure what. He turns toward the wall and is asleep again immediately.

 

***

 

He stands on the dune overlooking the waterhole and his flock.

 

“ _What do we do now, sir?”_ BB-C4 chirps for the third time, nudging his ankle.

 

He doesn’t know. He can’t think.

 

“ _What do we do now, sir?”_ BB-C4 insists.

 

His entire flock is dead. Their woolly carcasses, already starting to bloat in the midday sun, litter the sand below.

 

The flock got loose from their enclosure in the night – that’s what BB-C4 was in such a frenzy about, what Kylo couldn’t understand in his drunken stupor. BB-C4 couldn’t corral them on his own and they got down to this waterhole, which, it seems, was infected with Blue Shadow virus. It killed his flock in a matter of hours.

 

He’d read about Blue Virus in history books – at its height, it had been a deadly plague across the galaxy, killing millions. But it was eradicated before Kylo was even born. Mostly eradicated. Isolated cases still cropped up here and there occasionally, he knew. Here and now, it seems.

 

Kylo sinks to his knees in the sand, all his strength gone. All his _everything_ gone.

 

He’s ruined. He’s failed.

 

“ _What do we do now, sir_?”

 

***

 

He follows the road, deeply rutted by cart tracks. All around – hardy blue-green grasses, yellow-barked trees, bright purple wild flowers, and outcroppings of gray and blue and red rock. In the distance, tree-blanketed hills rising up blue. The sky is turquoise and the sun shines on his head. It’s beautiful and colorful. And cold. The ever-present wind whips through his thin, loosely—woven desert clothes. He’s ill suited to this place after the heat of Jakku.

 

The road rises and rises but when he reaches the crest, the land slopes away in rolling, verdant, emerald green fields cut through by hedgerows. This must be the place. He spots fields of yellow jun rippling in the wind. He spots banthas and nerfs grazing. He spots fluffy white kessarch grazing and his stomach sinks to his shoes.

 

Maybe he shouldn’t be here. Why does he think he can do this? This is a terrible idea. He should turn around, go back to town, figure out some way to leave – with no money, with no prospects, with nowhere to go.

 

He’s been walking for hours. He’s come a long way to get here, used his very last credits. His feet carry him forward, down into the valley, down into Stardew Grange.

 

***

 

Gravel crunches under his shoes as he walks through the stone gate and into the yard. Looming at the far end of the yard is a stone manor house that’s seen better days, crumbling in spots. He passes sagging outbuildings with thatched roofs and flimsy-looking rough-hewn enclosures for animals. A boy taking the saddle off a beautiful golden fathier watches Kylo curiously as he passes. An elderly woman in a tatty shawl mucking out a stable looks up, eyes him up and down, taking in his odd clothes, his stranger’s appearance.

 

“Ain’t no handouts to be had here, beggar man,” the old woman snaps. “Move along now.”

 

Kylo stares at the woman, says nothing. That usually works well to intimidate people but the old woman just stares back, unimpressed. “I’m looking for Rey Winter-Moth.”

 

“She ain’t here, now move along, I say!”

 

A voice calls out from inside the stable. “Who is it, Mrs. Eberle?”

 

When she steps out of the stable into the sun, holding a shovel full of manure, he almost doesn’t recognize her. Gone are her lightweight, dust-colored desert clothes – her clothes are thick and woolen and warm, her boots are muck-covered and rubber. There’s a streak of muck on her cheek and her hair is half-down, disheveled. She’s a mess and her cheeks are pink from exertion and she’s so achingly beautiful and real. He swallows thickly.

 

She’s staring at him, her mouth falling open a little. “Kylo,” she says softly, like she can’t believe what she’s seeing.

 

He nods once. “Rey.”

 

Her face shifts, her mouth closing and her expression more evaluating and reserved, cool. Somehow she looks older, womanly now even though it’s only been a few months. “What are you doing here?” she asks stiffly.

 

He swallows again - the last crumbs of his pride. “You said once you could offer me a job.”

 

“I did.”

 

“Does the offer stand?”

 

She blinks and he knows she’s absorbing the implication of what he’s saying – that his farm is gone, that he couldn’t make a go of it, that he’s a complete failure-- “It does,” she finally answers.

 

His heart lifts. But all he does is nod again, once.

 

“Go see the overseer, Mr. Charr. He should be in the barn.” Rey points to a stone building across the yard. “Tell him you’re the new head shepherd. Tell him I said so.”

 

He nods again. “Thank you, Rey.”

 

She nods, too, her face softening just a little. “You’re welcome here, Shepherd Ren.”

 

He turns away, heads for the barn, feeling lighter. He’s gratified to see her looking so well, and to say he’s missed her would be a wildly mild understatement. But he’d made himself a promise before he landed on Ceathea and he vows again now to stick to that promise:

 

He’ll never drink again. And he’ll never again make a fool of himself over Rey Winter-Moth.

 

TBC.


	7. The New Sheriff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for taking a look at this! I really appreciate all the comments - they're the best!

 

She marches down the path, clutching tight the load in her arms. Her rubber boots slip a little on the gravely walk but she can’t slow down or she’ll lose her nerve. And she can’t afford to lose her nerve. She’s not a girl anymore. She’s not that girl from Jakku who depended far too much on _men_ , cruel men and one kind man, for her food rations, for water, for continued survival, for continued shelter, for companionship, for friendship.

 

Passing the row of farm laborers’ cottages lined up all together at the bottom of the hill, she eyes their whitewashed mud and stone walls. They look terrible – in severe need of patching, if not total reconstruction. She sighs. One more thing to put on the to-do list. The never-ending list.

 

The shepherd’s cottage is further down the path, separate from the rest, closer to the creek. She recalls from her inspection that it’s slightly bigger than the rest, but not by much – enough room for the usual narrow bed, the wood burning stove, the window, the table and chair, but also, uniquely, a comfy old wingback chair with the stuffing coming out.

 

She can see him sitting in the comfy chair on cold evenings, keeping warm in front of the open stove, doing his sewing while she sits on his lap and dozes, her head on his shoulder--

 

She kicks viciously at a stone on the path, pushing the image away forcefully. That’s _not_ what she needs and it’s not what she wants.

 

The cottage door is open, the shutters on the window open, letting in the sun and fresh air. She can make out his form moving about inside as she approaches. But when she’s almost to the door, just a few steps away, she stops, arrested by the sight. Of him.

 

His shirt is off and his loose desert trousers hang low on his hips and she’s entirely startled.

 

Smooth skin wet, glistening. Chest and shoulders impossibly broad. Chest and belly and arms solid with thick muscle. Like someone carved him out of stone or wood. She remembers thinking him a wall once. The comparison was accurate.

 

He’s combing his long dark hair and it’s wet, too – he must’ve just bathed, likely in the creek. His eyes are closed, his head tipped back as he pulls the comb through, his oddly handsome face peaceful. It was impossible to keep clean on Jakku and so no one ever bothered to try, but Kylo looks like he’s enjoying being clean now, enjoying this grooming ritual immensely.

 

She’s never seen such a man in her whole life.

 

She had felt his body pressed against her own on exactly two occasions, felt his bulk and his strength. But to see what’s been hiding beneath his black clothes is something different. Her face is hot. She can’t take her eyes off his chest – hard nipples, smooth curves, wide planes. She could rest her head there--

 

He opens his eyes and sees her standing there staring at him. She must’ve made some sort of noise. Her face gets even hotter. He makes no move to cover up, letting her look at him, looking back in that way he has. She’s reminded of when she first knew him, how she couldn’t read him at all.

 

“Did you--did you wash?” she blurts, feeling stupid and not waiting for a response. “I spent the first two days here in the bathtub. There’s running water in the house. Hot and cold. I never imagined such a thing ever existed.”

 

He’s still looking at her. Likely wondering why she’s here and rambling on like a fool.

 

She glances at his chest once more and looks away, shoving her arms forward, offering up what she’s brought. “Here.”

 

He sets his comb on a ledge and steps into the doorway, filling it, and takes the bundle from her – a couple pairs of wool trousers, some thickly knit sweaters, some loose tunics, a pair of sturdy boots. Clothes more appropriate to the climate and the landscape.

 

“Those were my grandfather’s,” she explains. “We were just going to sell them or whatever. I’m told he wasn’t quiet as tall, but he was heavy. The sweaters and shirts should fit. And the boots, I hope. The pants, I was thinking you could use your sewing skills on those.”

 

She half expects him to reject the offering out of misplaced pride, but he doesn’t, just thanks her quietly as he turns away and moves deeper into the cottage. She finds herself following – but just to the doorway, lingering there. She spots his old loosely-woven tunic, heavily darned, hung up and dripping above the pot-bellied stove, drying.

 

“Where did you learn to sew, anyway?” she asks idly, stalling for...she doesn’t know why.

 

“I told you about that,” he answers, holding a pair of dark green trousers to his hips, inspecting their length.

 

She frowns. “No you didn’t. When?”

 

He’s still for a long moment, hunched over, holding the trousers. “I guess I figured I had, before.” He stands up straight again but doesn’t look at her, laying the trousers out on the cot. She waits for more, waits for him to answer properly, tell her, but he doesn’t.

 

She’s busy - she could’ve sent someone else down here with these clothes. But she had a couple ulterior motives, neither of which was to see him half-naked. She glances at the thick grooves at his hips, how they disappear under his trousers. She wants to ask why he’s here but knows it must be one of two things: either he failed in his endeavor on Jakku or he came for her. Both are upsetting and she doesn’t want to hear about either, frankly.

 

He doesn’t have BB-C4 with him. He’d still have BB-C4 if everything were okay. He must’ve lost his farm somehow. She didn’t think that would ever happen to him – despite some cruel words she flung at him in the past.

 

She doesn’t ask him what exactly happened, she doesn’t want to poke that wound.

 

Her other motive for coming to his cottage is just as awkward and more stupid. “Um, earlier, when you arrived, Mrs. Eberle was there and Gav. And you, uh, called me Rey.”

 

He blinks, not understanding for obvious reasons.

 

“It’s just that...” She’s being such a child. She stands up straighter. “You need to call me Miss Winter-Moth here. That’s what all the others call me. It would be awkward if they heard you calling me something else.”

 

“Fine,” he says plainly, nodding once.

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

He shakes his head, dismissing her apology. “I’m your employee.”

 

She sighs. She’s still sorry but she doesn’t push it. Absently, she picks up his comb from the ledge. “I don’t even like it. Winter-Moth. I don’t like using it.”

 

“Why not?”

 

She shrugs, running her thumb over the tines of his comb. She plucks a lone long dark hair from it, drops it on the floor.

 

“Because he knew. Merle Winter-Moth,” he answers for her. She looks at him, curious. “He knew about you. He knew your parents left you on Jakku. For some amount of time, however long or short, he knew. And he didn’t come for you. He left you there.”

 

She looks away, toying with the comb, pushing a tine under her thumbnail so it stings worse than the hot stone in her throat. “I hate them for it.”

 

Kylo’s feet shuffle on the stone floor, he comes close. She doesn’t look up but can feel how his size bends the gravity around him and tugs on her. “Don’t hate them.” His fingers brush hers as he takes the comb away. “Let the past die. Kill it if you have to. But don’t waste your time on hate.”

 

If she looks up, she’ll find him looking down at her with those dark eyes and probably find them soft and liquid and deep. And she might kiss him, or he her. She remembers his kiss and how she wanted another crack at kissing him right. His facial hair, more grown in now, might tickle. She might touch him. He might hold her against that body.

 

She was hurt and angry and disappointed when she left Jakku – stupidly perhaps, yes. He certainly didn’t owe her anything and _she_ was the one leaving _him_ there. But she was still hurt and feeling far too vulnerable and dependent and she’d made a promise to herself when the transport shuttle left the planet: She’d never let herself be _abandoned_ or _hurt_ ever again. By anyone.

 

He’s so right – let the past die.

 

She slips away without a word, leaving him standing at the doorway. She marches back up the gravel path.

 

***

 

Everyone’s filing into the grand dining room - all the house staff, all the farmhands, the skilled laborers, everyone. With two notable exceptions. Rey can tell the staff is noticing who _isn’t_ here, throwing each other confused looks and raised eyebrows, murmuring to each other. And they’re noticing the new face, the new shepherd, despite Kylo’s attempt to be inconspicuous, lurking way at the back of the room.

 

She waits for the room to settle, standing behind the dining table and trying hard not to fidget. She’s nervous and she feels strange in these clothes. She’s never worn a skirt before. But it looked kind of pretty when she dug it out of the old trunk she found. And it had a matching jacket. She wanted to look presentable and responsible and mature for this meeting, not like the messy child she usually is.

 

She clears her throat and the room hushes, waiting, expectant. Staring at her. She’s met everyone on the estate, of course, but doesn’t know all of the names yet, admittedly. There’s a lot of skepticism looking back at her right now, a lot of unimpressed glares. She briefly seeks out Kylo’s face and finds a little bit of comfort in the familiarity of it.

 

“First. I know you’ve all noticed a new face in our midst. Kylo Ren, our new head shepherd.” She gestures to him, adding without thinking, “The finest shepherd in the sector.” And now everyone’s looking back at him, craning to see the finest shepherd in the sector. His face is a picture of embarrassment, at least to her practiced eyes. He probably thinks she’s mocking him, trying to humiliate him, and she kicks herself. She really isn’t mocking him, she means it. She smiles at him as warmly as possible and nods once, trying to assure him. He seems to relax a little, slightly. Maybe.

 

“Second. You’ve also all noticed that Mr. Charr the overseer and Mrs. Greyhelm the head housekeeper are not here. Some of you might know this already, but for those of you who don’t – they’ve been sacked.”

 

There’s an eruption of murmuring and grousing and grumbling. She lets it play before raising her voice above it. “I’m not going to let rumors circulate, so I’ll tell you why they were sacked. Because I am not my grandfather.” The murmurs die and she thinks she’s confused them. “Mrs. Greyhelm would only do things exactly the way my grandfather had them done. She didn’t listen to a word I said, to be honest, and that was actually a large part of her job. So she’s out.”

 

The silence is deafening and she’s sure they all hear it when she swallows thickly. She resists the urge to tug on the strange skirt and instead lays her hand on a stack of ledgers piled on the table. It’s taken her nearly a month to work her way through them all and it was hard, given her limited reading skills. But she did it and now she understands all.

 

“Mr. Charr was overseeing this estate into the ground. It’s been losing money for years. And he was stealing money from it, money that should’ve been used for building maintenance and capital improvements. My grandfather let him get away with it, for whatever reason. But I won’t. So he’s out.”

 

Now there’s murmuring again and she’s a little comforted by the sense she’s getting that none of these folk knew Mr. Charr was stealing.

 

“So now you’re wondering who is being promoted in their places. I’m happy to say that the house will now be managed by one of our former janitors about the place, Mr. Finn.”

 

Mr. Finn looks edifyingly surprised by his unexpected promotion and she’s happy. She’s found him to be a friendly and handsome young man, but most importantly he’s fairly new to the estate and therefore not mired in the culture of the place. And he made a joke about Mrs. Greyhelm one day that made Rey laugh. So he’s a keeper.

 

“And as for Mr. Charr’s position, I have decided to have no overseer at all. I am going to manage everything with my own head and hands.”

 

Someone snorts derisively. She clenches her fist atop the ledgers.

 

“I don't know my powers or my talents in farming yet, it’s true,” she admits, biting back her anger. “But I will do my best. And if you serve me well, I shall serve you well. I shall be up before you are awake. I shall be afield before you are up. And I shall have had breakfast before you are afield. In short, I shall astonish you all.”

 

Frankly, she was going for _rousing_ and _inspiring_ with that last bit – she’d practiced it earlier. But she’s still getting skepticism and doubt from the faces before her. Only one face is giving her what she was looking for – Kylo’s eyes are bright and lively and warm, and she feels gratified, grateful.

 

He nods at her, assuring, the way she tried to do earlier. She hopes he knows she believes in him, despite everything, even if she’s rubbish at expressing it. Because she knows he’s the only one to have _ever_ believed in her.

 

 

TBC.


	8. The Gentleman Farmer

 

He lifts the last heavy stone into place, wiggling it and settling it so it sits well in the wall. He pulls off his work gloves and pushes his sweaty hair out his face, wipes his face clean on his shirt sleeves. The air is cool but the sun is bright and very warm and he’s been repairing this wall all afternoon. His arms are tired, his back aches. He stretches his muscles and surveys his work critically. It won’t win a beauty contest but it’s sturdy and now he can let the kessarch back into this meadow without them jumping the rubble and disappearing into the neighboring estate.

 

If he’s honest, he finds Stardew Grange’s resident flocks to be rather rubbish – small in number and size, fleece poor quality, no good tups at all. His flock on Jakku was vastly better, despite the conditions there. At least he can take a bit of pride in that. Just like the rest of the Grange, this flock needs a lot of work.

 

Deep in thought as he trudges along the road back to the farm, he barely notices when a nut falls from the tree branches above and bounces off the side of thick skull. He brushes vaguely at his hair, solely focused on his trip to town next week to visit the livestock breeders. If he could get a few decent tups soon without blowing his limited budget, that would be a start. He also needs to find someone selling a used herding droid.

 

Another nut falls, hitting the back of his head. Kind of hard. He rubs at the spot and looks back, looks up into the tree for whatever furry little critter is making a mess--

 

Rey. The little critter is Rey, sitting in the branches of the twisted, ancient tree. She’s laughing silently, a hand clamped over her mouth, her eyes crinkled and her shoulders shaking.

 

“Ow,” he says blandly for her benefit.

 

She drops her hand and laughs out loud, uproariously, throwing her head back the way she does.

 

“What are you doing up there, Miss Winter-Moth?” he asks when she’s finally laughed out.

 

She frowns at him slightly, briefly, like he said something rude, but then she sighs, shrugs. “Just felt like it. A lot easier to climb than the inside of a dreadnought, that’s for sure. Did you like climbing trees when you were a kid?”

 

He doesn’t tell her he’s never climbed a tree. He thinks about sharp-tongued palace nannies endlessly scolding him about how senators’ sons, much less _princes_ , shouldn’t do _this_ , couldn’t do _that_ , it isn’t _appropriate_ , it just isn’t _done_ , what if someone were to _see_ him.

 

Kylo immediately starts climbing the tree.

 

She laughs again, sounding delighted.

 

He scrabbles for handholds, digs the soles of his work boots into the rough bark. He’s almost worked his way up to the branch she’s perched on when his boot slips a bit. He starts to skid down and grabs at the branch just as Rey seizes his wrist and pulls. It’s just enough leverage for him to get a grip and get his footing back. She holds onto his arm as he hauls himself up, only relinquishing her grip so he can get situated on the branch, perched beside her.

 

“There, now we’re even,” she says, grinning.

 

“Even?”

 

“I saved your life like you saved mine. After I fell inside that starship.” She’s teasing, her eyes glinting.

 

“We’re not that high up. You still owe me,” he teases back.

 

“Maybe I do.”

 

She looks away, looking over her land stretched out before them as far as they can see, green and undulating. He lets himself look at her pretty profile. Her perfectly formed features the right size and shape for her face, unlike his own. The dance of a dimple as her grin flickers. Her mouth pink and soft, lips not so full but sweet. Sweet to taste, he recalls.

 

He tears his gaze away.

 

“I knew I was going to die,” she says then and he remembers how small and broken she looked when BB-C4 brought him to her. He’d thought she _was_ dead, in fact. He’d wondered briefly where he should bury her. Her voice is soft and distant when she adds, “I’d never felt so alone.”

 

He’s sitting close to her enough that he can feel how she shivers beside him. He resists the urge to put his arm around her and hold her close. “You’re not alone, Rey,” he says, eyes on the farmstead in the distance.

 

“Neither are you.”

 

He knows what he means when he says such a thing, but he also knows not to read too much into her repeating back the thought like this. She’s just being kind, a friend, she could never feel the way he does, he’s so fucking far beneath her--

 

She shifts, leaning into him, and her small hand lands softly on his cheek and stays there, warm, gentle. He can’t help but turn his face to hers, blinking, startled.

 

The way she’s looking at him is just as warm and gentle as her hand. Her thumb moves a little, stroking his skin.

 

The need to lean down and kiss her is like bathing naked in the creek – a bone-deep ache, painful. But she didn’t like it when he kissed her before, that night in her AT-AT, what feels like ages ago. She didn’t want him doing that. She didn’t want him.

 

He’s staring at her mouth again. Her wet tongue peeps out and wets her pink lips. Invitingly. Her lips stay parted, inviting him.

 

He doesn’t move. He can’t. He promised himself--

 

He feels how her body stretches up against him, just a little, seeking.

 

He caves.

 

He starts to lean down, eager to meet her.

 

“Ben?”

 

He freezes.

 

“Ben, is that you?!” a voice calls out.

 

Kylo jerks upright, almost falling backwards out of the tree, that voice slicing through him like a sword. His stomach falls down out of the tree instead. An old man he’d know anywhere is on the road below, hunched on a black fathier.

 

“What are you doing here?! Why are you in a tree?” the man calls up, sounding scandalized by both things.

 

He can’t speak.

 

He can’t move.

 

He’s dizzy.

 

“Farmer Skywalker,” he hears Rey say from half a galaxy away. “This is Kylo Ren, my head shepherd. Kylo, this is Luke Skywalker. He owns the estate next door.”

 

It’s like some sort of horrible cosmic fucking joke. He stares at the man who’s grown so wrinkled and gray, the man he used to call Uncle.

 

“Ah, so you’re really still calling yourself that, are you?” Luke Skywalker growls, amused and derisive.

 

Kylo sees absolute _red_. It fills him.

 

“What is going on?” Rey is asking and he can hear her obvious confusion.

 

But he can’t answer, he doesn’t _know_ what’s going on, he doesn’t know how the _hell_ this is happening in a galaxy this fucking _big_ , and so he’s jumping down from the tree branch without a word.

 

His boots hit the ground hard from that height but he absorbs the shock, stumbling awkwardly, catching himself with a palm in the dirt. He manages to gain his feet and stomps away, fists clenched and hunched forward and plowing down the road like a full-grown nerf bull.

 

He can hear it when Luke Skywalker tells Rey, “That’s my nephew, Ben Solo.”

 

***

 

Kylo barges through the door of his little cabin, nearly taking the door right off its hinges.

 

He lumbers over to his narrow cot and yanks on the frame, tossing the whole thing aside like a toy in his haste to get to what’s under the bed – his dusty old pack, carrier of all his worldly goods for years and years. He snatches up the empty pack and jerks it open, eager to load it up.

 

He’s getting off this fucking moon as soon as fucking possible.

 

TBC.


	9. The Prince

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all the comments and for sticking with this one! xoxo

Slowly, he wakes. He’s not sure why, what roused him, but the first things he sees is the fire burning in the stove before him. He didn’t light it. He straightens up in the old wingback chair and his rough blanket slips from his chest. His boots are off for some reason. He didn’t do these things.

 

“What happened?” Rey asks from somewhere next to him. He peers over the arm of the chair. She’s sitting on the stone floor, leaning back against his chair, her legs out in front of her, ankles crossed. He could rest his hand on the top of her head and tug on one of her little three buns.

 

She pushes herself up, stands, groaning slightly. Her leg, the one she broke – probably bothering her some.

 

“How is it?” he asks, pointing at the leg.

 

“It’s nothing,” she says shortly, crossing her arms over her thickly knit sweater and staring down at him. Her face is mostly in shadows but he can tell she’s annoyed and obviously waiting for him to explain himself.

 

His desire to leave Ceathea on the next transport died quickly. He hadn’t put a damn thing in his pack, realizing how childish he was being. He didn’t want to do that to Rey, it’d be unfair and unprofessional, he didn’t want to be a bad friend to her. So instead he’d trashed his room. And when he was done he righted the wingback chair, flopped down into it, and fell asleep.

 

“What the hell is going on, Kylo?” she demands. “Or should I call you Ben?”

 

He doesn’t mind her using that name, he really doesn’t. _She_ can call him whatever she wants, if he’s honest. It’s the rest of the galaxy he doesn’t want knowing him by that name.

 

He thought he’d killed Ben Solo, that he was finally his own man, albeit not a very successful one. But unexpectedly seeing his uncle again brought Ben Solo right back up from the dead. In the blink of an eye, he was a gangly, awkward, clumsy boy again, filled with a child’s bitter, passionate anger and disappointment.

 

“What did... _Skywalker_...tell you?” Kylo grinds out.

 

“He said he hadn’t seen you since you were eighteen and left your boarding school before graduating and announced you were calling yourself Kylo Ren from now on and left for no-one-knew-where to do no-one-knew-what.”

 

“That’s five-percent of the story. The very end of it,” he informs her.

 

“So tell me all of it.”

 

He presses his lips together and stares into the fire.

 

“Why do you hate your uncle?”

 

He slouches lower in the chair and crosses his arms over his chest, over his blanket, matching her.

 

“Kylo--“

 

“It’s nothing to worry about. I can still do my job here perfectly well. It won’t be a problem. I won’t be a bother,” he answers flatly.

 

He sees her fling her arms down, fists clenched at her sides. “Dammit, Kylo--“

 

He growls and leans forward, the blanket falling away, his elbows stabbing into the tops of his spread thighs. He jams his hands into his hair, pulling on it. “I really don’t want to tell you about my ‘poor little rich boy’ problems.”

 

“’Poor little rich boy problems’?”

 

“Yes. They’re stupid,” he insists. “And I’m not rich anymore, in case you’re wondering. In case you hadn’t noticed.”

 

She’s quiet for a long moment. “Someone here told me Farmer Skywalker is the twin brother of a senator. Princess Leia of Alderaan’s twin brother, in fact. Which would make him a prince.” He grinds his molars together, waits for Rey to get to her conclusion. “Are you Princess Leia’s son? Are you a--a _prince_?”

 

“Only technically,” he mutters, glaring at his hands clasped before him. He can’t look at her. It’s all too embarrassing, this whole thing.

 

“Oh,” she says flatly, then adds, barely loud enough for him to hear, “Crikey.”

 

He shakes his head, annoyed at how _wowed_ she sounds. “It’s in the past.”

 

“Mm.” She kicks something nearby – it tumbles along the stone floor, sounding sort of hollow, wooden. A table leg. From the table he smashed earlier. “So this is your idea of letting the past die, killing it? By killing my furniture?” she snipes.

 

“I’ll fix it. I’ll clean this shit up.”

 

She sighs and he hears her take a step closer. He doesn’t look up. He doesn’t want her coming closer – he feels all over the place right now, out of control, and he’ll do something he’ll inevitably regret if she touches him now. She maybe seemed to want him to kiss her earlier in the tree, but he won’t be able to stop at just _kissing_ right now and it wouldn’t be okay or sweet or nice and it would scare her and hurt her and ruin him and ruin them.

 

“I’m fine, Miss Winter-Moth, thank you,” he says.

 

That stops her feet.

 

“Fine,” she says tightly.

 

Before she steps out, though, he asks her, “Can I ask you not to mention any of this to the others? About Skywalker and-and my mother? And Ben Solo?”

 

“I won’t. I wouldn’t.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

***

 

He _wants_ to explain.

 

He owes her an explanation, he knows that.

 

He wants her to know him, know Ben.

 

And...he _doesn’t_ want to explain.

 

Maybe he doesn’t owe her an explanation, he’s not sure.

 

Ben was a sorry little shit anyway.

 

He avoids her and thinks about it for a few days.

 

***

 

“You might be wondering if I knew Luke Skywalker was on Ceathea before I came here. No. My uncle always owned a lot of properties, estates flung all over the galaxy. Including here, it would seem. The galaxy is a small place, sometimes.

 

“And yes, my mother was, is, a princess and a senator. But my father was, is, a rogue. He used to be a black market smuggler but after they married he became some sort of gentleman adventurer and never did anything useful with his time, as far as I could tell. He couldn’t stay in one spot for more than a week and my mother couldn’t leave her various official duties for more than a day. And they couldn’t be in the same room with each other for more than an hour.

 

“This left very little room in their lives for me. There were a lot of nannies and governesses and private tutors. When I was old enough, they shipped me off to a private boarding school for rich boys. Everyone there knew who I was, that I was a prince. They were brutal about it. They were brutal toward me. I don’t know if I told you this before or not, but I quickly became the class punching bag.

 

“The school’s royal patron was my Uncle Skywalker. I eventually asked him to have the three worst of my bullies, the ringleaders, expelled from school. Which I can admit now was a bit childish and not exactly character-building. Skywalker refused my request, trying to teach me something, I suppose.

 

“But then he reprimanded me about it in front of everyone at school, essentially telling me to man up. He humiliated me. And of course I just got bullied worse after that. Every time Skywalker came around to visit the school, he was hard on me and I hated him, yes. I spent a long time hating him.

 

“As soon as I turned eighteen, I left school. I left my family, I left everything. I changed my name and went away and tried to find my place in the galaxy as my own man.

 

“I hate talking about my past, especially to you, dearest girl. I know my problems were nothing compared to yours. I had everything, I wanted for nothing, but it wasn’t enough, it wasn’t good enough, it brought me nothing but unhappiness. But you were a spinebarrel flower in the desert, my Rey, and I’ve been in awe of you since the day we met. I love your courage. I love your strength. I love your stubbornness. I love your fight. I love you.

 

“When I went out into the galaxy, I sought happiness on my own terms, and part of that was to let go of the hate I felt. But maybe I haven’t yet, not entirely. I told you once not to hate your family, that hate was a waste of your time. Hate will only get in the way of happiness. Which is why I want to let go of all my anger and all my hate for Luke Skywalker – because after many, many years, I have found my happiness. It’s with you, my darling. I don’t want anything to get in the way of that.

 

“And I so very much want you to be happy, dearest Rey. My dearest girl. My one and only sweet love. I know I’m not your happiness, I know I’m not your love, I know you’re not mine. But I hope that some day, when I’m deserving, you will have me. Until then, I shall do one thing in this life, my Rey, one thing for certain: Love you and long for you and keep wanting you till I die.“

 

***

 

He stops there.

 

He puts down his pen and reads over what he just wrote.

 

He picks up his pen.

 

He signs the letter.

 

“Yours entirely and always, Kylo Ren & Ben Solo.”

 

He dates it.

 

He folds it carefully into quarters.

 

He writes her name on the back.

 

He leans back in his wingback chair.

 

He turns the folded paper over and over in his hands.

 

He watches the fire burn in the stove.

 

He leans forward in his chair.

 

He tosses the letter into the fire.

 

He watches it burn to ashes.

 

 

TBC


	10. The Day of Love

“What’s this?” she asks, holding up the bit of folded paper she’s found.

 

Mr. Finn looks up from the ledgers he’s been hunched over for an hour. He’s been dutifully pouring over the household accounts, trying to find places to cut costs so she can redirect extra funds into making structural repairs and buying better breeding stock and hiring more hands and repairing the waterwheel and getting a new grinding stone for the jun wheat and getting Kylo a new herding droid or maybe even a real live cattle dog, wouldn’t that be something--

 

“It’s a Day of Love card,” Mr. Finn tells her of the paper she’s holding. “Where did you find that? Does it have a love note inside? Is it from your boyfriend, your cute boyfriend?”

 

“It was in here,” she comments, nodding at the half-empty drawer of the old secretary desk she’s cleaning out. She opens the card – blank. She holds it up so Mr. Finn can see there’s no note inside. “What’s the Day of Love, anyway?” she asks.

 

“You’ve never heard of the Day of Love?” he asks, sounding incredulous.

 

“Not a thing where I’m from. We had a special day every year for washing our clothes, though.”

 

“That sounds gross,” Mr. Finn comments dryly. “The Day of Love, it’s just a silly holiday when sweethearts send each other little presents or maybe go do something special together like hunt porgs or roll around in the grass. Or maybe if you don’t have a sweetheart but you _like_ someone, you’d send them a card like that so they would know how you feel.”

 

“When is this Day of Love? Soon?”

 

“No, it’s in the spring. But of course sometimes folk send a card like that whenever they want, holiday or no.”

 

She looks at the card again, tracing the swirly red pattern on the front – hearts and flowers.

 

She thinks briefly and very unintentionally of Kylo Ren’s mouth.

 

Her face gets suddenly hot. She looks down at her lap, hopes Mr. Finn doesn’t notice her blushing.

 

Kylo’s been making himself scarce lately. Yes, he was away in town, seeing livestock breeders, but he’s been back for days and days and she’s hardly seen him at all. She can’t help but think he’s avoiding her. He was so... _upset_ that night in his cottage. She’d been shocked, finding his little cottage trashed like that. The obvious expression of his anger had shocked her. She’s never seen him angry. She didn’t know he was _capable_ of such strong emotions, if she’s honest; he’s always so controlled.

 

He’s a _prince_. A _prince_ all this time. Ben Solo the prince. Kylo Ren the prince. She just can’t get her head around it.

 

On Jakku, he’d had power over her. She was at his mercy in a very real way.

 

Here, on Ceathea, she’s had power over him as his employer.

 

But now the power is on his side again and forever. Because he’s a _royal_ _prince_ , a whole planet kingdom at his fingertips if he wants it, and she’s nobody and that’s the way it will always be, no matter where they are or what she does.

 

“You should send that to your sweetheart,” Mr. Finn says, interrupting her thoughts and she looks up.

 

“What?”

 

He nods at the card. “Send it to your sweetheart.”

 

“But I don’t have a sweetheart.”

 

Mr. Finn grins and gives her a nod. “Your secret’s safe with me, Miss Winter-Moth, don’t worry.”

 

“What are you talking about?” she asks sharply.

 

Now his grin fades and the color seems to leave his face, which she isn’t sure actually possible. “Oh.”

 

“Mr. Finn,” she prompts.

 

He clears his throat and hunches back over his ledger. “Um, well, it’s just that... Everyone thinks Shepherd Ren is your sweetheart.”

 

“ _What_?” Now the color’s leaving her face, she’s sure. “Why would they think that?” she demands, her fist curling up tightly.

 

“It’s just that, um... Well, everyone says you and Shepherd Ren used to know each other, before you both came here.”

 

“Well, yes, that’s true, but--“

 

“And, uh... Some folk have seen you,” he mumbles into the pages of the ledger.

 

“Seen me doing what?” she persists, punctuating the last bit with a fist down hard against the wooden desktop.

 

“Um, walking on the path to Shepherd Ren’s cottage,” he says quickly. “A few times. Going down there or coming back up from there. Once quite late at night,” Mr. Finn finishes, sounding mortified. “So they assumed...”

 

“That’s-that’s bloody outrageous!” she shouts, just as mortified, and Mr. Finn jumps a little in his seat. “How dare they think that!”

 

“No one minds about it, Miss, I mean there’s nothing _wrong_ with it, if that’s what you--“

 

“Yes there bloody well is! Shepherd Ren is my _employee_ and that is completely inappropriate!” Her face is hot again and she knows Mr. Finn can see how bright red she is. “I won’t have it. I won’t have folk thinking that about me. Or Shepherd Ren.”

 

“I’m sorry, Miss Winter-Moth. You know how folk gossip. Especially about the boss.“

 

She grimaces. “I guess there’s no avoiding that,” she admits. But then she sits up as straight as possible and puts on her most imperious tone. “But you make this known, Mr. Finn: Yes, Shepherd Ren and I knew each other on Jakku, but we are not, nor have we ever been, sweethearts.” And she adds, her voice failing her a bit more than she’d like, “Nor will we ever be. You can tell them that.”

 

“I will, Miss.”

 

He goes back to his ledgers. She fans her face with the hateful card, horrified at this new information. What vicious, wild, _completely_ _baseless_ rumors.

 

“Miss Connix in the kitchen will be glad to know it,” Mr. Finn comments off-handedly. “She fancies the pants off Shepherd Ren.”

 

Something flares in Rey’s head that makes her slightly dizzy.

 

“And Miss Phasma the blacksmith is always talking about how she wants to fight him, but I think by ‘fight’ she actually means--“

 

“Well they can have him,” Rey snaps tartly, cutting him off. “At the same time, if they want, it’s none of my business.”

 

“What an image,” Mr. Finn mutters, shaking his head. “Like two fieldball goal posts and the crossbar.”

 

“Yes, okay, thank you, Mr. Finn.”

 

He finally stops talking and she wishes she could vanish through the floorboards. She’s angry, she supposes. Or chagrined, really. More like ashamed. And utterly humiliated. _Caught_. Which is ridiculous because she hasn’t done anything, she and Kylo never actually did anything inappropriate.

 

She sighs and is about to jam the Day of Love card in the trash can with the rest of the junk she’s cleaned out of the drawer when Mr. Finn says, “You should hold onto that, Miss.”

 

“Why?”

 

“You never know, you might want to send that to Farmer Skywalker some day,” Mr. Finn says, grinning wickedly.

 

“Not likely.”

 

“Can you imagine his face, though, if you sent him that? Grouchy old bastard. He’s rude to _everyone_. Thinks he’s better than everyone, is what it is, being royalty and all that. Jerkface. He deserves to be taken down a peg, if you ask me.”

 

Rey regards the card again, slapping it against her palm.

 

She doesn’t put it back in the drawer. But she doesn’t put it in the trash, either.

 

***

 

He crowds the handsome brown kessarch up against the wooden fence, but this is a feisty young tup and puts up a bit of a fight and Kylo almost loses him. That’s good, feisty is a good sign in a tup. He’s pleased – he got this tup for cheap, the breeder clearly not knowing what he had. This animal is worth five times what Kylo paid for it – what the mistress of Stardew Grange paid for it, rather.

 

The other two tups he acquired – a white one and a black one – were more expensive but still quite good buys. Full of potential. There weren’t any herding droids remotely within their price range so he didn't mind spending more than he’d planned on these three good lads.

 

Pinning the brown tup with his knees, leaning in, and getting a firm hold on one curly horn, Kylo murmurs quietly, trying to calm the tup. He quickly places the hypodermic injector behind the tup’s ear, squeezing the trigger and releasing the vaccine. The tup bleats in protest.

 

“Good boy, that’s a good boy, all done,” he murmurs, massaging the injection spot for a moment before letting the tup go.

 

“So you’re a shepherd now, are you?”

 

Kylo grimaces, instantly aggravated, his contented mood now gone, and straightens up. He doesn’t turn around to face his uncle, instead ignoring the old man and slowly approaching the next tup, the black one.

 

“These are some fine looking animals, Ben,” his uncle continues. Angry words spring to Kylo’s tongue but he bites them back. “New ones, huh? And you picked these out all by yourself?”

 

_Fucking asshole._ Kylo seethes inside, gnashing his teeth together. What was that he wrote about letting go of his hate for this man?

 

With effort, he forces himself to move forward calmly, slowly, so as not to spook the tup. Skywalker manages to keep his trap shut long enough for Kylo to get the black kessarch pinned between his knees. He gives the vaccine injection quickly and lets the laddie go.

 

He can feel Skywalker watching as he moves in on the last tup, the white one. But the white one is a real bastard – a very good sign – and puts up much more of a fight. The tup is _strong_ and Kylo’s breathing hard by the time he gets the little bastard subdued and vaccinated.

 

“Good job, kid,” Skywalker comments when he’s done, mocking him no doubt. That was always Skywalker’s favorite pastime, giving him a hard time. “This is what you’ve been doing all these years, huh? Shepherding?”

 

He doesn’t answer, he just opens the wooden gate and starts shooing the three new tups out of the enclosure and into the small paddock to join the other tups, the Grange’s original tups.

 

“What _have_ you been doing, kid?”

 

“Whatever the fuck I want,” he answers now, flat and hard.

 

He catches Skywalker smirking a little at that. Laughing at him. “How did you come to be here of all places? How’d you come to be working for Miss Winter-Moth?”

 

He’s definitely not telling Skywalker any of _that_. “Ask her yourself.”

 

“Hm, maybe I will. I was thinking of asking her up to the house for tea sometime, actually. We can talk all about you. I’ll show her your baby holovids.”

 

“Do that.”

 

The old bastard pulls something out of the folds of his robes and holds it up, waves it at him. “Did she send me this, do you know? It’s not signed but I know it came from Stardew Grange.”

 

Kylo hesitates. The last thing he wants to do is engage with this man and indulge him in whatever drama he’s trying to stir up. But anything regarding the mistress, well... He’s the ocean and Rey the moon, constantly pulling on him.

 

He sighs and walks over to where the old man stands leaning against the other side of the fence. He takes the thing his uncle’s holding out – it’s a card, a red design drawn on the front. He opens it and immediately recognizes Rey’s childish, inexperienced, carefully formed handwriting. Inside the card she’s written, “ _You are the prince of my heart.”_

Kylo blinks. His insides squeeze tight. His guts lurch out of place. What _is_ this?

 

“Well? Is that from your mistress or not?” Skywalker asks again.

 

He swallows. “No, it isn’t,” he says plainly.

 

Skywalker eyes him for a long moment and takes the card from his fingers. “You can’t fool me, kid. You never could.”

 

Kylo stares back at his uncle as dispassionately as he can manage, given how his chest is twisting up.

 

Skywalker slips the card back inside his robes. “So what’s she like, huh? I heard she’s from Jakku, of all places. _Jakku_. Can you imagine?”

 

“Like I said, ask her yourself,” he says and turns his back on Skywalker. He plods away toward the wooden gate, heading out of the enclosure, heading out to the paddock.

 

“Wait a second,” Skywalker calls after him. “Wait. Please.”

 

Kylo curses out loud but does stop. He looks back at his uncle. “What?”

 

Skywalker seems to hesitate and Kylo is about to go, all his patience gone. “I know I failed you, Ben,” his uncle says carefully. “I'm sorry.”

 

He sounds honest enough maybe, but all Kylo can see now is red. He’s livid. He’s shaking. He’s thirty fucking years old. He needed these words ten, fifteen, twenty years ago. Not now. It’s too late now. It’s too late.

 

“I’m sure you are,” he snaps and turns his back again.

 

Kylo hears Skywalker sigh and then say, “See you around, kid,” as he stomps off into the paddock and away away away from the insufferable old bastard as fast as his boots will take him.

 

TBC.


	11. The Mercenary Farmhand

The problem with promising her staff that she’d be up before they woke, afield before they were out of bed, and done with breakfast before they were afield is that she actually has to do all those things. Which means getting up obscenely early every morning.

 

Which would be fine except that, because she also fired the thieving overseer and took on all his duties, she doesn’t get out of the fields until after they’ve all gone home, doesn’t finish her work until after they’ve gotten into bed, and doesn’t get to her bed until after they’re all fast asleep.

 

Her last task each night is a cold and lonely walk around the homestead and farm buildings to make sure everything is right and safe and secure. She trudges around the stables and the stone barn and the manor house and the sty and the blacksmith’s shack and the grain store and the rickyard, shining her lantern into every dark corner, checking every latch and lock.

 

She’s just turning the corner of the fathier stable when she spots light in the repair shed. She sighs heavily. Someone’s left a lantern lit, it seems – a bloody good way to burn the whole place down to the ground. That’s why she’s out here, though, isn’t it? Instead of in her nice soft oversized bed.

 

Grumbling to herself, she shoves the shed door open a bit too hard – it bangs against the wall. Which makes the man standing in the middle of the shed spin around, startled. Which makes Rey shout in surprise and fear – she hadn’t seen him.

 

“Dammit, Kylo!” she gasps, clutching her chest. Her heart is hammering. “You scared me!”

 

Kylo stares at her – the feeling is clearly mutual.

 

She sucks in a steadying breath. “What are you doing here?” she asks.

 

He holds up a pair of shearing scissors and nods at the grinding wheel behind him. Ah, yes – he’ll start shearing the flock beginning tomorrow morning, if she recalls the schedule right.

 

“Why are you doing that at this hour?” she asks. “It’s late. You should be in bed.”

 

“I’ve been afield all day. Didn’t have time until now.”

 

“Oh.” At least she’s not the only one burning both ends of the candle around here.

 

“How have you been, Mistress?” he asks politely.

 

“Fine.” She’s been avoiding him, that’s how she’s been. Ever since Mr. Finn revealed that disturbing bit of gossip about herself and Shepherd Ren, she’s been steering clear. Doing her best to prove to everyone she’s above reproach in all respects. “And you?”

 

“Fine.”

 

“Good,” she says, nodding and deciding it’s time to go. It’s late and they’re alone and what if someone _sees_? Tongues would wag, no doubt. She opens her mouth, about to remind him to take the lantern with him and lock the door when he leaves.

 

“Wanna have a go?” he asks.

 

Her eyebrows pop right up. “What?”

 

He waggles the shearing scissors and nods again at the grinding wheel. “Want to try?”

 

She blinks. She should go. It’s late and she’s tired and they’re alone-- “Okay. Sure.“

 

She steps closer to him and the grinding wheel but he doesn’t give her the shears. “Like this,” he says and demonstrates, pumping the treadle with his foot to make the wheel turn and holding the metal scissors against the spinning stone. “See?”

 

She nods and takes the scissors from him and positions herself in front of the wheel. He stands by, watching as she gets it spinning. She applies the edge of the blade to the wheel and it scrapes along.

 

He grunts then. “Like this,” he says and suddenly his arms are around her and his hands, as big and warm as the cast iron skillets hanging above the hot kitchen stove, are covering hers. She’s frozen, flustered, her face getting as hot as that stove. His hands tilt her hands, adjusting the angle. “Go ahead,” he says, his voice close and soft. She can barely hear him, the blood thumping in her ears. She can’t move. He nudges the back of her leg with his knee. “Pump it.”

 

She nods mutely and pumps her foot and the wheel gets spinning again because she’d stopped moving the moment his body pressed against hers. “Faster.” She complies and feels him nod. “Good.”

 

His hands are gentle. He radiates heat just like that stove. She needs him to finally kiss her. She needs to stop this. She needs to leave. Someone might _see_. His knee is pressed against her thigh. She can feel his breath whisper against her cheek. She can smell the dark earth and the cold wind and the hot sun on his body. The turn of the wheel has her hypnotized.

 

“Rey?” he murmurs.

 

She shivers. “Yes?“

 

“My uncle is going to invite you to tea.”

 

“What?”

 

“Because you sent him that card.”

 

Her stomach sinks like a stone and her brain fuzzes and she sags a little in his arms and her foot stills, the wheel slowing to a stop, the flood of burning shame just overwhelming.

 

“Why did you do that?” he asks so gently, giving her hands a soft squeeze.

 

“I-I was just... I was just teasing him.”

 

He leans into her, over her. He murmurs in her ear, “Why?”

 

“Because he’s so... He’s a mean and sarcastic old grouch and he upsets you so much and I just...” So much for making sure all her actions are above reproach. “I was just teasing,” she mutters weakly.

 

“That’s beneath you, Rey.” His voice is so mild and kind but she can’t help it – something in her starts to prickle at his gentle admonishment.

 

“Miss Winter-Moth,” she reminds him.

 

His thumbs stroke the backs of her hands. “That’s beneath you, Miss Winter-Moth, and it’s beneath me.“

 

_Beneath him_. Because everything she is and does is so far _beneath him_. Tears burn in her throat, aching to get out. She shrugs him off, pushing his arms away, and he steps back, taking his heat and his earth and his sun with him. She doesn’t dare face him. She can’t speak.

 

“Yes, he upsets me, but that’s my problem. Yes, he’s an asshole, but he’s also a lonely old man, he always has been, and what you did was unbecoming of a lady.”

 

She slams the shearing scissors down on the wooden bench at hand and snaps, “Good thing I’m _not_ a lady, then.” She finally turns to look at him – _glare_ at him. She digs her nails into her palms. “I’m just scavenger trash from Jakku, I know that, but you are my employee, Ben Solo. You’re not a prince here, you’re just an employee, so who are you to rebuke me?”

 

He gazes at her and he’s always so _infuriatingly_ unperturbed in the face of her most bitter and thoughtless words.

 

“You said to me once that you wanted me as your friend. Friends tell each other the truth. They give each other advice.”

 

Her tears burn her eyes and slip down her cheeks. “Here’s some advice,” she says, choking. “Know your place, shepherd.”

 

***

 

She takes a sip of tea. A bit strange, sort of woody.

 

She hears him take a noisy slurp of his tea.

 

She hears him swallow.

 

She keeps her eyes on the amber liquid in her cup, swirls it.

 

She can hear a clock ticking somewhere.

 

The delicate, beautifully decorated teacup clinks softly when she sets it in the equally beautiful saucer.

 

He clears his throat.

 

She glances up, expecting him to say something.

 

He does not.

 

She looks back to her teacup.

 

She tugs on one long sleeve of her dress. She found it in a cupboard – it’s probably horribly out of fashion, she has no idea.

 

She takes another sip of tea.

 

The clock, wherever it is, bongs softly.

 

Bong.

 

Bong.

 

Bong.

 

Bong.

 

She’s been here twenty minutes. It’s felt much longer.

 

She clears her throat. “What kind of tea is this?” she asks stiffly.

 

“Cassius tree tea,” Farmer Skywalker answers. “Supposed to be good for your health.”

 

“I see.”

 

“But that’s probably just a load of bantha shi--“ He grunts, catching himself. He finishes, “Probably not true.”

 

“I see.” She takes another tiny sip. “It’s good,” she says politely.

 

He picks up the teapot. “More?”

 

It’s _not_ good and more means sitting here that much longer. But he’s already tipping the pot over her cup. “Thank you.”

 

He pours himself more, too.

 

His chair creaks when he sits back.

 

He slurps.

 

She knows he’s eyeing her but she doesn’t look.

 

She takes another little sweet cake. Nibbles it.

 

Her stomach is churning.

 

Rather than accepting his invitation to tea, she should have just apologized for sending him that card. But she didn’t want to be unneighborly. Or unladylike.

 

The chance to apologize seems to have passed.

 

To even mention the card now just seems...impossible.

 

And Farmer Skywalker hasn’t mentioned it.

 

Better not to say anything at all.

 

The clock ticks.

 

He clears his throat again.

 

“So. My nephew. How’d he come to work for you, huh?”

 

“I met him on Jakku. He had his own farm there--”

 

“A farm on _Jakku_? What is he, a moron?”

 

“No, sir. He was doing very well there.”

 

Farmer Skywalker raises an eyebrow and grunts. “Apparently not, if he ended up leaving it behind to work for someone else.”

 

She bristles and her teacup clatters just a bit too loud when she sets it down. “I don’t know about any of that. He’s been invaluable to me, that’s all I know.”

 

“Well, good, that’s good.” He eyes her for another long moment and then takes a sweet cake for himself, shoves it all into his mouth and asks around it, “Did he tell you about me, then? How things went between us back when he was at school?”

 

She should say that Kylo told her all, but in truth she’s been curious for weeks. “No, sir.”

 

He sighs heavily. “Well, I guess the details don’t matter so much, not anymore--”

 

_Dammit_! She grimaces, disappointed.

 

“--The gist is that I was trying to give him some backbone. He was a spoiled little brat, he needed toughening up. But the truth is I was tough on him because I couldn’t have people thinking I was showing him any favoritism. Appearances, you know?” He sighs again. “And the real truth is I was far _too_ hard on him, unrelentingly so. And never ever encouraging. I regret that.”

 

“You should apologize to him.”

 

“I have. Just the other week, I did. But...I don’t think Ben will ever forgive me. He’s made his choice. I’ve lost him for good.”

 

She studies Farmer Skywalker. What did Kylo call him? An asshole. He looks so sad right now, frowning into his teacup, cake crumbs stuck in his graying beard. What else did Kylo call him? A lonely old man. That’s probably Skywalker’s own fault, being so. But she’s not heartless toward the old man.

 

“Mr. Skywalker, can I offer you some advice? As a friend?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“Don’t give up on Ben. Keep trying. Make amends somehow. Whatever happened between you two, I think it _did_ give him backbone. He’s a very good man. So don’t think his choice has been made forever, it hasn’t.”

 

Farmer Skywalker smiles a little, his blue eyes losing some of their sadness now, warming as he gazes at her. “You’ve got a good heart, Miss Winter-Moth. To put up with Ben. To put up with me. You’re very sweet.”

 

“Thank you,” she says crisply, an alarm bell going off in her head.

 

Farmer Skywalker thinks she’s _sweet_.

 

She wishes she’d never sent that stupid stupid damn card!

 

She should just explain why she sent him that card.

 

Except she _can’t_ explain.

 

She sent it to him because she couldn’t send it to his frustratingly sexy and unattainable and maddening nephew.

 

And now his nephew hates her, she has no doubt. Rightly so.

 

She sighs.

 

***

 

The harvest time fast approaches and her to-do list grows and grows, a hundred details to oversee in preparation, not the least of which is hiring some temporary field hands.

 

The haymaking begins and everyone is afield, scything and raking. All the farmhands, the blacksmith, the wheelwright, the house staff, the stable boys – everyone.

 

The sun starts to get high and hot and she rests a minute to take a drink of water. She leans on her wooden rake. Someone starts singing some sort of shanty and a few others join in. She smiles to herself, not knowing the song but enjoying the sound the singers make. She breathes in deep, liking the fresh, bright smell of the sweet ando grass as it’s cut down.

 

She spots Shepherd Ren a ways ahead. She stares. He’s taken his tunic off and he’s swinging a heavy scythe, bare-chested and sweaty. She can see from here how the heavy muscles in his chest and arms and shoulders and back bunch and stretch as he swings back and forth rhythmically. She absently takes another drink of water from her canteen.

 

Someone sighs nearby. She looks. It’s Miss Connix, the kitchen maid. She’s stopped raking, too. She’s staring openly at Shepherd Ren, too. Rey can practically see the hearts filling the other girl’s eyes.

 

Rey snaps the lid back onto her canteen. “The hay won’t rake itself, Miss Connix,” she calls out.

 

Connix starts a little, surprised. “Yes, Mistress.” She starts raking again, sneaking one last glance at Shepherd Ren.

 

Rey gets back to her rake, too, and doesn’t let herself take another look Shepherd Ren’s way.

 

But she becomes aware of him near some time later. She’s worked her way up the field, raking the grass into neat rows, and she glances over her shoulder. He’s just there, at her back, raking his own neat row behind her, his pace matching hers, his movements counterpointed to hers so they don’t bump.

 

She rakes back, he leans forward.

 

She leans forward, he rakes back.

 

They work steadily on, silent, the _shush_ of their tools in the grass and the distant singing the only sounds.

 

She stops and he stops.

 

She takes a drink from her canteen and holds it out. He takes it and drinks. He holds it out and she takes it back and drinks again, putting her lips where his just were. He wipes his sweaty long hair away from his face and she does the same and they get back to work in silence.

 

***

 

With the sun starting to sink lower and lower back down to the horizon, she returns from a toilet break and damn near gets bowled over by a field hand coming around the end of the hedge.

 

“Whoa, sorry there!” the hand exclaims, skidding to a halt in front of her, narrowly avoiding knocking her back on her ass.

 

“You might watch where you’re going,” she says, eyeing the man. He’s older than she, crinkles around his eyes, but fairly good-looking with his dark curly hair and his easy smile. She’s never seen him before – she would’ve remembered.

 

“Yeah, I know...” he answers vaguely, but his eyes are roving around her face and looking her up and down. She takes a step back without meaning to. His smile grows and he says happily, “Wow, you are _beautiful_. You must be Miss Winter-Moth.”

 

She blinks, disconcerted by his straightforwardness. She crosses her arms over her chest. “I didn’t hire you, sir. I can’t pay you.”

 

He waves a hand, dismissive. “No, I know, don’t worry about that. I come back every year to help with the harvest. I grew up here.” He bites his lip and openly stares at her mouth. She presses her lips together, tight. “I’m sorry, Miss, but I can’t help it – I've seen a lot of women in my time and I've never seen a woman as beautiful as you.”

 

She’s blushing, damn him. “I wish you _would_ help it, sir,” she says tartly, taking another step back. He only follows, taking a long step closer, and she realizes how alone they are, away from the others behind this hedge.

 

“Be offended or not, I don't care, but you _must_ know, there must be some man who tells you that you’re beautiful,” he says, his dark eyes glinting.

 

“Well there isn’t.”

 

“But there is someone who kisses you.”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

 

“You’ve never been kissed?” he asks, moving closer.

 

“I’ve been kissed before!” she exclaims, backing up into the hedge.

 

“But he never told you you’re beautiful? I’ll wring his worthless neck,” the man says cheerfully, smiling bright.

 

“I’d like to see you try,” she says, almost smiling back. This man is at least half a foot shorter than Kylo. “So, what, you’re a wandering mercenary farmhand, then?”

 

The man laughs, full and hearty, showing straight white teeth. “No, I’m a pilot.”

 

Something zings through her. She blinks. “A pilot?”

 

“I used to be a fighter pilot. Rapier Squadron Commander Poe Dameron of the Republic Defense Fleet at your service, Miss.” He gives a little bow here. “Now I’m with Kuat Systems Engineering. I’m an experimental test pilot.”

 

Something flutters hard in her chest. “Oh I see,” she says, fighting the urge to clutch her tunic. Instead she sticks out her hand. “I’m Rey.”

 

Poe Dameron takes her hand, shakes it, holds onto it. He grins at her. “Yeah, I know.”

 

TBC.


	12. The Harvest Moon

He forks a load of hay and hoists it up to young Gav balancing on the top of the growing hayrick. The lad takes the hay with his own fork and stomps it down onto the pile with his feet. He seems to lose his footing then, maybe finding a bit of a hole in the hay, and sinks to his knee.

 

“You all right up there, Gav?” Kylo calls.

 

“Yes, Mr. Ren,” the boy answers, climbing to his feet.

 

“Good lad. Let me know if you have to come down.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

He gives the boy a thumbs up and then digs his pitchfork in, hoists up another load of hay.

 

“Shepherd Ren,” he hears his mistress call behind him. He sighs a little, girding himself. He wishes their every interaction weren’t so _fraught_ these days. Jakku seems a lifetime ago, the easy companionship they had built there more or less gone now, it seems. The only time it _hasn’t_ felt charged lately is when they weren’t actually speaking to each other, when they worked side by side in silence in the field the other day.

 

He turns to her now and curses to himself because she’s just so lovely, walking straight towards him with the morning sun on her sweet face, an easy smile on her pink lips. A smile for him. She makes his chest ache.

 

“I’m looking for Mr. Dameron. Have you seen him this morning?” Rey asks brightly, her pretty eyes alight.

 

Now his chest just _hurts_ , the ache different.

 

He knows who she means – the newcomer, the short swarthy man. Everyone here knows him, it seems. Everyone here just _loves_ Poe Dameron.

 

“No, Miss,” he answers flatly.

 

“Gav!” she calls up to the boy. “Have you seen Mr. Dameron today?”

 

“Not yet, Miss,” Gav calls back.

 

She frowns a little and looks around, eyes scanning the field.

 

“Shouldn’t he be on time if he’s here to work?” Kylo asks, trying not to sound too peevish.

 

She shrugs. “I’m not paying him, so he’s not obliged to be here at all, if he so chooses. He’s here out of the goodness of his heart.”

 

Kylo bites his tongue, almost saying something _fraught_. Hell, maybe the diminutive newcomer is a fucking saint, how should he know? “Yes, Miss.”

 

He doesn’t see Mr. Dameron until hours later when they all break for lunch. Dameron is ahead of him in line at the lunch spread, spooning himself up a generous portion of rootleaf stew. Kylo eyes the older man, wondering if he rolled in only for the food.

 

Kylo takes his own stew and sits by himself away from the others. He shovels spoonful after spoonful into his mouth without tasting it, too busy eyeing Dameron sitting with Rey and Mr. Finn and Miss Phasma and a few others. He seems to be holding court, telling some story with a lot of gesticulation, making everyone laugh out load at various points. Kylo almost chokes on his food when the man dares to pinch Rey’s cheek in the middle of all of it, right in front of everyone. And Rey only laughs, doesn’t seem to mind at all!

 

Sharp heat spikes through him and he growls, flinging his half-eaten bowl away into the grass, unable to stop himself.

 

“You didn’t like it, then, I guess?” someone asks and he looks up sharply, startled. A blonde girl with two braided buns on the sides of her head is sitting nearby in the shade of the tree. He hadn’t noticed her there at all. He thinks she works in the kitchen but can’t remember her name.

 

“No I didn’t,” he answers.

 

“You’re right. Too much salt. I tried to tell Cook but she never listens to me.” The girl laughs a little and smiles at him. “But I’d be happy to make you something else. I’ll go down now, bring it back in a jiffy.”

 

The girl is already pushing herself up. He holds out a hand, waving her down. “No, that’s okay.”

 

“It’s no trouble, really!”

 

“No, don’t bother, it’s fine.” He looks back toward Rey and glares darkly. Dameron is sitting _awfully_ close to her. “I’m not hungry.”

 

“Well, anything you need, Mr. Ren.”

 

He hums a little and the girl is saying something more but he ignores her, content to shred himself to bits watching Rey smile and fucking _giggle_ at that man.

 

“...come tonight, maybe? Mr. Ren?”

 

He tunes in again. “What? Sorry?”

 

“I was just saying you might come around to the staff house some evening. Have a drink, play some cards. We have a good time there, you’d like it, everyone would love to see you there.”

 

He highly doubts that. He’s sure everyone is probably afraid of him – he has that effect on people. But he only hums again, noncommittal.

 

“Mr. Dameron is going to teach us all how to play Molavarian poker tonight.”

 

He looks at the blonde girl now. “Dameron will be there?”

 

“Oh, sure! He’s always there when he comes home. You should come meet him, he’s so much fun.”

 

He stares at the girl – through her, really. “Maybe I will. Thank you, Miss...”

 

The girl smiles brightly at him. “Connix,” she supplies eagerly. “But call me Kaydel.”

 

***

 

Being the worst socializer in the entire galaxy means he changes his mind about seventeen times before finally forcing himself up the hill to the staff bunkhouse.

 

When he walks in, no one greets him, everyone just stares at him, bemused and expectant. He almost turns right around and leaves.

 

“Have a message from the mistress, do ye, Mr. Ren?” asks Mrs. Eberle, setting down her mug of beer.

 

“No.”

 

“Well is the barn on fire or something?”

 

“No, ma’am.”

 

“He’s here for a drink, Mrs. Eberle, cripes!” Miss Connix – Kaydel – interjects, coming forward and taking his arm, pulling him along to the table where she was sitting.

 

“Well why didn’t he just say so?” Mrs. Eberle grouses, going back to her beer.

 

Miss Connix tugs on his arm, urging him to sit in her chair. “I’ll get you a mug of beer, Mr. Ren, just rest yourself here.”

 

“Nah, give him something stronger,” Poe Dameron says, plopping down in the chair across the table. He raises his glass, something amber in it, and downs it in one. “A big boy like him can handle a man’s drink. Can’t you, son?” Dameron gives him a grin, flashing his perfect teeth. “Get him a whisky, Kaydel. And get me another.”

 

Kylo stares flat and hard at Dameron, trying out his well-honed mind trick on him, doing his best to intimidate the other man. But Dameron just sticks out his hand. “Poe Dameron. You must be Shepherd Ren.”

 

Kylo thinks about ignoring him but instead reaches across the table and takes the offered hand, grips it hard. Real hard.

 

His hand is a lot bigger than Dameron’s. The smaller man tries to give as good as he’s getting, but Kylo crushed a rock in his hands once. Not just an old clod of dirt, an actual rock. He may have been drunk and extremely angry at the time.

 

“Mr. Ren knew the mistress before they came here,” Mr. Finn contributes when they finally release hands.

 

“Oh yeah? Neat-o,” Dameron says and Kylo just catches him flexing his fingers as he drops his hand under the table.

 

When Miss Connix comes back with their whisky, and a beer for herself, Dameron raises his glass again. “Everyone! Everyone! A toast. To the mistress!”

 

There are a few snorts and groans of derision but quickly enough everyone else raises their drinks and repeats the toast. “To the mistress!”

 

Dameron gulps his in one go again, but Kylo only takes a sip of the strong liquor, remembering a promise he made to himself a while back. He keeps the small glass wrapped in his palm, hiding it.

 

“So. You play cards, Mr. Ren?” Dameron asks.

 

Kylo shrugs. Han Solo was, is, many things. An attentive father, no. A card sharp, though? Yes. Definitely. And just about the only thing Ben learned from his father, besides disappointment, was how to win at just about every card game in the galaxy.

 

“How about Molavarian poker? You know it?”

 

“Heard of it.”

 

“Good enough!” Dameron slaps a deck of cards on the table. “I’ll go easy on you, son, don’t worry,” he adds and then gives Mr. Finn a wink.

 

“I’ll try to keep up,” Kylo answers flatly.

 

 

***

 

He lets Dameron win the first two hands.

 

Dameron rakes in the credits from the pot and toasts his wins with another big whisky.

 

Kylo lets Miss Phasma win the third hand, meaning he engineers it so Dameron _can’t_ win it. It’s not hard to do.

 

Dameron drinks and Kylo catches him gazing warmly at Mr. Finn when Mr. Finn isn’t looking.

 

He lets Dameron think he’s going to win the fourth hand, but Kylo takes it easily with pocket aces and pretends it’s beginner’s luck. He scoops up the pot and Dameron drinks to Kylo’s beginner’s luck with yet another whisky.

 

Now he knows why Dameron can’t make it to the fields on time in the morning – because he’s a lousy drunk.

 

Kylo wins the fifth hand. Poe frowns.

 

Miss Connix gets quickly tipsy on her watery beer and tries to sit on Kylo’s lap for some reason.

 

Kylo wins the sixth hand. Poe rubs his hand through his dark hair in frustration and drinks whisky.

 

Kylo wins the seventh hand and now everyone is crowded around, watching just the two of them play, Mr. Finn and Miss Phasma bowing out of the game entirely.

 

Kylo wins the eighth hand. Poe bangs a fist on the table and counts his tiny pile of credits. He borrows a few from Mr. Finn.

 

Kylo wins the ninth hand. Poe glares at him and calls him a kriffing hustler. Took him long enough to figure that out.

 

“We can stop if you like,” Kylo offers.

 

Poe glares at him. Then borrows a few credits from Miss Phasma and deals the cards.

 

Miss Connix tries again to sit on Kylo’s lap but slips and falls on her ass instead.

 

Kylo wins the tenth hand. Poe finishes the bottle of whisky and demands more credits from Mr. Finn and some from Miss Connix.

 

Kylo wins the eleventh hand and someone suggests they call it a night but Poe just won’t give up, taking more credits from his friends.

 

Kylo wins the twelfth hand and Poe jumps to his feet and stumbles, nearly falling over, and shouts at him, “You’re fucking cheating! You must be! He’s a fucking cheater!”

 

Mr. Finn sighs and gets up, taking hold of Dameron, slinging his arm around him. “All right, buddy, time to go, huh?”

 

“No! I can beat this guy, dammit! Gimme some credits.”

 

But Mr. Finn ignores him and leads him away. “Nah, I think you need to lie down and rest your eyes a minute, pal. Come on.”

 

Kylo scoops up the pot and eyes Poe. Poe eyes him right back, albeit blurrily, as Mr. Finn leads him outside.

 

Everyone’s staring at him again, murmuring to one another, shaking their heads. Kylo briefly considers that maybe humiliating their old friend, a local boy, wasn’t the best way to make friends here. But he wasn’t trying to make friends anyway.

 

He stands up from the table, credits in hand.

 

He gives Miss Connix back the exact number of credits Poe borrowed from her earlier.

 

He gives Miss Phasma back her exact number of credits, too.

 

He repays everyone who gave Poe credits.

 

He hands Miss Phasma more credits. “Can you give those to Mr. Finn for me, please?” He still has a pocketful of credits for himself.

 

Everyone’s fallen silent, astonished, watching him give their money back.

 

He leaves and can feel their stares on his back as he goes.

 

***

 

On his walk back down to his cottage, Ben realizes he owes his father a drink next time he sees him. Whenever that might be. _If ever_ that might be. Han Solo didn’t disappoint in _one_ respect, at least.

 

Part of him considers, for the first time ever, that his father may have been trying to do something more than just teach him card games all those years ago.

 

Well hell.

 

***

 

There’s a party on the night of the Harvest Moon. The mistress doesn’t skimp on it and Kylo thinks that’s a good idea. Keeping the workers happy, enticing the temporary hands so they don’t wander off, keeping spirits up in the middle of a grueling harvest time, it’s all worth the cost he reckons.

 

A big bonfire is built in the fallow field and tables are set out with lots of food and drink. A professional drum and violflute band has even come from town and they’re playing lively jigs for everyone to dance to.

 

He does not dance. Not in this galaxy or any other. He was taught, of course, at the palace. But he looks like a fool when he dances, lumbering about awkwardly.

 

And he’s not drinking, though he would very, very much like to. He’d like to be terribly drunk right now.

 

No, he just sits by himself at the edges of everything and stuffs his face with sandwiches and watches the mistress get turned about the field in the arms of Poe Dameron. Naturally, Dameron dances. And does it well. And isn’t afraid to do it.

 

Dameron has wisely been steering clear of him since the night of their poker game. But he seems to have turned up the charm offensive on the mistress because she always seems to be around him.

 

“There you are, Ben,” Luke Skywalker says, sitting himself down next to him on the wooden bench. “Being the life of the party as usual, I see.”

 

Kylo hums, for once unperturbed by his uncle’s annoying jibes. All of his ire has been focused elsewhere lately. Like a laser. Right on Poe Dameron.

 

Skywalker must see exactly where Ben’s attention is because he comments, “Your mistress looks well tonight, doesn’t she?”

 

She does. Her dress is pretty and lacy and fits her little body well, showing her girlish curves. And she’s always looked particularly beautiful in the glow of firelight and moonlight.

 

“She dances well, doesn’t she?”

 

She does but he can’t imagine where she picked it up. There wasn’t any dancing on Jakku, as far as he could tell.

 

“And she seems to have found a capable partner. Poe Dameron is quite the fancy man, isn’t he?” Skywalker elbows him here and adds, “I’d suggest your ask her to dance, but I really fear for the safety of her toes,” and laughs uproariously at his own lame joke.

 

“Why don’t you ask her to dance, then?” Ben shoots back.

 

Skywalker sighs and Ben glances at him, sees the soft, sad way he’s watching Miss Winter-Moth.

 

Stars almighty, the old man has a _crush_ on her, he realizes. He almost laughs at that. If it weren’t so pathetic, he would laugh.

 

“Nah, a pretty girl like her doesn’t want to dance with an old man like me.”

 

“Yeah, you’re right about that. _No one_ wants that.”

 

Skywalker grins wryly. “Always so nice chatting with you, kid.” He smacks Ben’s knee and then says, “No, but seriously, kid, I wanted to ask you something.”

 

Here it comes. “What?” he asks, ready for another lame, cruel joke.

 

“I wanted to ask you to pick out some kessarch stock for me with the dealers in town. My flock is a bit paltry, to be honest. You’ve been doing good work here and I thought your expertise might help revive my flock.” Ben looks at his uncle, searching his wrinkles for signs of mockery. But Skywalker just nods at him, no jokes lingering in his eyes. “Money is no object. You can buy the best stock available. Whatever takes your fancy. And I’d pay you, of course. Pay you well.”

 

Ben studies him a long moment, kind of stunned. He’s not sure what to say exactly. “My mistress would have to approve any outside work.”

 

“Of course, of course.” Skywalker smiles a little bit. “Will you ask her, then?”

 

Ben grimaces. It feels itchy and ill-fitting, like someone else’s clothes, contemplating helping this old bastard. “I’ll think about it.”

 

“Good. Thank you, Ben.”

 

He grunts in response. They sit there in silence, watching the revels around the bonfire. The silence is uncomfortable but in a different way and he sort of prefers the jibing. He’s out of sandwiches now. He stands up.

 

“You going to ask her now?” Skywalker asks.

 

“No, I’m going to ask her to dance.”

 

But he doesn’t, of course. He stands by the food and eats his feelings.

 

Miss Connix finds him eventually. She’s tipsy again, more than tipsy, and talks at him and asks him to dance with her. He refuses but she doesn’t go away, instead hanging off his arm and talking on and on about who knows what.

 

He sees Rey drink two bottles of beer.

 

He sees Rey reel about and get dizzy and fall into Dameron’s arms and laugh.

 

He sees Rey drink another bottle of beer and lean close to Dameron as he talks in her ear.

 

He sees Dameron stare at her intently, seemingly waiting for something.

 

He sees Rey blush and then raise her eyes to the man and nod at him shyly, biting her red lip.

 

He hears alarm bells go off in his head.

 

He sees Dameron grin at her and touch her cheek and say something and then slip away, leaving the party and disappearing into the dark.

 

He sees Rey glance around and finish her beer and smile to herself and then head off the way Dameron went.

 

The alarm bells are clanging.

 

He drops his sandwich and takes a step to follow his mistress. But something catches him, pulls on him. Miss Connix. She’s gripping his arm and staring up at him, imploring and wet-eyed.

 

“Don’t be a fool, Mr. Ren. She doesn’t love you and she never will!” the girl cries sloppily, tugging on him, trying to pull him down closer as she stretches up toward him. “Why can’t you see what’s right in front of you?”

 

He shakes her off carefully, not wanting to hurt her.

 

He strides away into the dark.

 

***

 

“Miss Winter-Moth,” he calls ahead and hurries to catch up with his mistress, striding right into her path.

 

She skids to a halt and seems to go white, quite an achievement in the pale moonlight. “Oh hello.” She tries to smile but it doesn’t quite succeed. “I was just going up to the toilet--“

 

“A moment, please, Miss?”

 

She frowns, glancing behind him into the dark. “What did you need?”

 

“Don’t go to him,” he says plainly, getting right to it.

 

She stares at him. “Excuse me?”

 

“Mr. Dameron. Don’t go to him.” Her whole face tightens, her mouth pressing tight, her eyes flashing. She’s _furious_ , he knows, but he goes on. “He’s not trustworthy.”

 

She takes a step closer and says hotly, “You don’t even know him.”

 

“I know him well enough,” he says mildly. “You’d do well to stay away from him.”

 

“More advice for me, shepherd?” she snaps. She takes another step toward him. “You’re _jealous_ ,” she sneers, pointing at him. He’s pretty sure she would never have the nerve to say that if not backed by alcohol.

 

“No, Miss.”

 

“No?”

 

“No. I’ve given up thinking of that...matter,” he says flatly.

 

“Have you?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Or wishing for it, I suppose?” she asks sharply, stepping closer, glaring up at him, her cheeks red again now.

 

“That’s right.”

 

She blinks. “Well that’s good,” she says, some of the fire gone from her voice.

 

“He’s not good enough for you, Rey.”

 

“Who _is_ good enough for me, then?”

 

He doesn’t answer that, staring steadily at her. He breathes her in – wood smoke and fresh hay and sweat.

 

She glares right back, seems to be waiting for him to say something. But when he doesn’t, she shakes her head and moves to step around him. He counters, stepping in her path again.

 

“Let me pass, please.”

 

He doesn’t move. She can’t go to that man. Rey is _his_.

 

“Kylo... Ben... Please. Let me go.” She dips her head and says, “I don't order it as your mistress. I ask it as a woman.”

 

He feels suddenly punched in the gut.

 

He feels sick.

 

No, he will _never_ be good enough for her and she could _never_ love a brutish, irrational asshole like him – how could she? He’s a monster.

 

“Of course,” he says immediately, gently, stepping aside. “I’m sorry.”

 

“Thank you,” she says, moving past him, her head bowed. “Good night, then.”

 

She walks away into the darkness.

 

She’s gone.

 

His everything, gone.

 

His knees give out and he sinks heavily to the dirt.

 

***

 

Her blood is up.

 

She’s fighting back tears.

 

She walks as fast as she can away from Kylo, stumbling a few times over uneven ground.

 

Her hands are shaking.

 

Her face is hot.

 

She’s breathing hard.

 

The moonlight floods in through the greenhouse’s glass ceiling and she easily spots Poe when she pushes through the door. He’s sitting on one of the long wooden plant benches. Waiting for her. He doesn’t have to wait long. She runs to him. She grabs his tunic and kisses him desperately.

 

He wants her. He told her so. He said it out loud by the bonfire. No hesitation, no mixed messages, no confusing and loaded encounters, no hidden meanings to guess at. “I want you,” he’d said.

 

She stands between Poe’s knees and sitting like this on the bench, he’s taller than she is and she likes that, she likes feeling petite and sheltered under him. His hands are cool against her hot cheeks.

 

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs.

 

For months and months, she’s been wondering what it would be like to be kissed again. Been thinking how she would do it differently, given another chance, how she would participate. She’s been waiting for Kylo to kiss her. But he’s given up on her, that’s what he just said. He doesn’t want her. So she kisses Poe like she never kissed him.

 

When Poe slides down from the bench, they’re the same height again and she doesn’t like that as much, but she puts her arms around his neck and presses close, burning for more more more.

 

His cool hands slide over her dress, wandering and squeezing and rubbing. She’s making high-pitched noises, sounding needy, she can’t help it. “I want you so bad,” he says again, his lips cool on her hot neck, his hand bunching up her skirt.

 

She’s desperate to know.

 

She’s not that vulnerable girl on Jakku anymore. She has money. She has authority. Everything she can see is hers and no one can take it away from her. No one can hold anything over her. There’s nothing to be afraid of.

 

She can do this.

 

She can do whatever she wants.

 

“Rey?” he murmurs against her neck, asking. His cool hands are under her skirt.

 

She nods and the tears she’s been choking on pour down her burning face. “I want to.”

 

TBC.


	13. The A-Wing Interceptor

When she was a girl, she scavenged the central computer processor, the control stick, and the display unit from an old BTL-A4 Y-wing starfighter. She could’ve traded it all to Unkar Plutt for about two weeks’ food rations. But she didn’t. She kept it for herself. She installed it in her AT-AT and hooked it all up and got it working. It took months and various bits and pieces from other scavenged fighters, but it did work. She used it to learn to speak alien languages. She used it to learn the schematics for all sorts of other starships. But what she used it for most was flight simulation. The computer had a training program installed on it and she’d wear her scavenged pilot’s helmet and fly that Y-wing through all sorts of dangerous flight conditions and fierce dogfights. She loved it.

 

When she was a young woman, not so long ago, she finally flew amongst the stars. But as a passenger. On the shuttles and transports she took on the long journey from Jakku to Ceathea, she stared out the windows and stared, amazed, at the vastness of space and the beauty of the stars streaking by. Take-offs and landings were a special thrill in particular. But it was all very bittersweet, finally flying for real – it was exciting, but she was still sad after that awful parting with Kylo Ren.

 

Now she’s a woman. She’s done things grown women do. But right now, right at this moment, she’s that little girl again, gripping the control stick of a starfighter and steering it through the stars.

 

But now it’s for _real_.

 

She’s not sitting cross-legged on the floor of her dusty AT-AT, wearing an abandoned old helmet, staring at a computer screen. She’s in the cockpit of a RZ-1 A-wing interceptor and she’s fighting the stick for control as she barrel-rolls through space. She’s grinning and gritting her teeth through the strain of the g-forces pulling on her body.

 

She levels the ship out and then she points the nose down and dives dives dives, careening down toward Ceathea. She punches thought the atmosphere and aims right for the sea miles below, picking up speed. The water gets bigger and bigger through her windscreen. The man in the rear seat curses loudly through her headset but doesn’t use his stick to pull them up.

 

She pulls on her stick only at the very last possible moment, before they hit the water, and levels the ship just a few feet above the sea, kicking up huge sprays of water along both wings and the fuselage.

 

“Shit!” the man in the back shouts. Then he whoops, sounding joyous, and shouts into their radio, “That’s one helluva pilot! Good girl!”

 

She laughs, exhilarated, and pulls on the stick, climbing, punching back through the atmosphere and back up into the void.

 

***

 

When they’re back on the ground some time later, Poe jumps out first, hopping out of the rear seat and tossing his helmet aside while she undoes her harness. Poe pulls her up out of the cockpit and grabs her, spinning her around in his arms right there on top of his A-wing. She holds on and laughs, the adrenaline still pounding through her body.

 

“Holy hell, lady, who taught you how to fly like that?” Poe cries, setting her back on her feet but keeping his arms around her.

 

“I taught myself,” she says, grinning.

 

“What?”

 

“I’ve never flown a starship before today,” she admits, feeling naughty, her grin growing.

 

Confusion dances over his face. “But...you said you’d learned how to fly--”

 

“Flight simulator. That I built myself. When I was eleven years old.”

 

He stares at her, his mouth falling open. It makes her laugh. Finally he does too, throwing his head back and laughing heartily. His body shakes with laughter, rumbling against her. “Holy shit, I think I’m in love with you.”

 

Her whole body tingles and stirs at his heady, wild words. He smiles at her and she thinks he might actually mean it. His arms tighten around her and he’s leaning in.

 

The night of the bonfire, with him in the greenhouse, it wasn't what she expected. She didn’t _know_ what to expect, of course. It was both uncomfortable and sexy. It was both overwhelming and underwhelming. She didn’t know how to feel or how to act afterwards. Part of her had wanted to run away. But Poe had sensed her awkwardness and held her tenderly and distracted her with some war story and said something that made her laugh and she felt a bit better. And then he’d asked if she wanted to go flying with him in his A-wing and she forgot about all her awkwardness and conflict.

 

Now, with him leaning in and with her heart still pounding and her adrenaline still peaking, it’s not long before she’s doing again what it is a grown woman does with a man who loves her.

 

***

 

She’s up extra early – the sky is lightening but the sun hasn’t risen yet. She needs to get these stables mucked out before it’s time to go afield. It promises to be another long day – they’re winnowing the jun wheat today.

 

She hears boots crunching in the gravel of the yard and looks up, startled. Who would be up at this hour?

 

It’s Ben Solo, Kylo Ren. Who else?

 

He’s crossing the yard, heading for the tool shed, she reckons. His head is down and she doesn’t think he’s seen her here in the deep shadows of the stable door. She half-raises her hand and is about to call out to him.

 

She’s seen him since the night of the bonfire, but only afield, surrounded by others. She hasn’t spoken to him. She hasn’t known what she would possibly say to him. But right now she’s dying to tell him about her joyride in the A-wing.

 

He’d called her “Rey the fighter pilot” once. He’d called her “Captain Rey” and painted her name on her helmet. She _finally_ got to fly and she so very much wants to tell him what it was like, how exciting it was, tell him about all the maneuvers she did, describe every detail of the flight to him. He’d appreciate what it meant to her.

 

But she can’t tell him, she realizes with a deep, aching sadness.

 

They’d only end up arguing, as usual – and probably about Poe Dameron. She doesn’t want to argue about Poe, there’s no point.

 

It’s better if she stays away from Kylo, frankly. All she seems to do is snap at him and attack him and she hates that. She hates being that way but it just seems to flow out of her. It makes her shrewish and she doesn’t like herself for it at all.

 

She lowers her hand and shuts her mouth.

 

Kylo passes out of the yard and out of sight, going about his business.

 

She sighs and gets back to her mucking.

 

It’s sad but it’s her own fault, she knows. She’s steadily pushed him away since the day he arrived here. She’s killed their old friendship. And she’d never admit this to anyone – can barely acknowledge it in herself – but in her heart she knows she’s done this on purpose.

 

Better to push someone away before they get the chance to leave you first, after all.

 

***

 

She shakes hands with Mr. and Mrs. Moonwood and their son Azmo. “If you’re around these parts again next spring, you’re certainly welcome back for the planting,” she offers.

 

“Thank you, Miss,” Mrs. Moonwood says, curtseying a bit. “We’ll send word ahead.”

 

She bids them good luck and they head out, off to who knows where. Her temporary workers have been leaving for the past week, the harvest time winding down.

 

She turns back to the house and finds Poe waiting for her, leaning against a fence down the way. “Hey there, beautiful,” he greets easily as she approaches.

 

“They’re off,” she says, jerking a thumb over her shoulder.

 

“Yep.”

 

He’s looking at her, the corners of his mouth pricking up. She looks away, fiddling with the ragged edge of her sweater sleeve. She needs to ask him something and she can’t. She doesn’t want to. Because she already knows the answer – he’s going to leave soon, too. He’s going to leave and go back to flying amongst stars. Honestly, she can’t say she blames him. Who wouldn’t do the same? She’s certainly no match for the stars.

 

He reaches out then and takes her hand. “So I was thinking...” He squeezes, his skin cool against hers. “What if I stayed?”

 

She looks up, startled, not entirely sure what he means. His eyes shine.

 

“What if I stayed forever?”

 

***

 

The harvest ends.

 

The crops are in.

 

Her temporary workers are gone.

 

Poe is not.

 

***

 

She sends Gav to find Kylo and summon him up to the house. She’s at her desk writing bank drafts when he arrives, rapping on the open office door to announce himself. She finishes her draft, taking the brief moment to compose herself. She’s nervous. She looks up.

 

He must’ve come down from the high meadows because he looks a bit wind burned, ruddy on his high cheekbones, his long hair swept back, his big ears showing in a delightful way. She’s never quite prepared for how strangely beautiful he is. But he looks tired and drawn, too, dark under the eyes, like he hasn’t been sleeping well.

 

She hesitates, feeling like she doesn’t know how to talk to him anymore. “How are you?” she asks politely.

 

He’s looking at her but not quite, his gaze steady on her shoulder. “Fine, Miss.”

 

She nods and he says nothing and she resists the urge to rearrange things on her desk. The awkwardness is like smoke filling the room. “Come in, sit,” she offers.

 

He takes a single step forward but that’s it, still mostly in the open doorway, filling it.

 

“Thanks for coming up.”

 

“Of course.”

 

“Sorry to pull you away, but I needed to ask you something.”

 

“Yes, Miss?”

 

She looks at her hands, twisting the cap of her pen a few times, hesitating more. “I have to go away for a few days next week. I was hoping you’d manage things here while I’m gone. I’ll of course give you a pay raise for the extra work.” She tells him the number. It’s not a small number. “Will you do it?”

 

“Yes, of course.”

 

She’s relieved. She’d imagined every possible scenario where he would refuse. And in some of those scenarios he shouted at her for various things and quit on the spot and walked right off Stardew Grange.

 

“And--and the pay raise wouldn’t just be for the time while I’m away. It would remain in place going forward.”

 

He looks at her then, directly. “That’s very generous, Miss.”

 

“Well you deserve it. You’ve earned it.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“You’re welcome.”

 

She tries to smile but it probably comes across as some sort of weird flinch because he looks away again. The floorboards creak under his boots as he shifts his weight. Yes, he probably wants to get going.

 

She stands up from her desk and sticks out her hand to seal their deal.

 

He looks at her hand, his face unreadable, and doesn’t move. She’s reminded of the first time they ever met, when she climbed a sand dune to introduce herself to a black-clad stranger. He didn’t shake her hand then, either.

 

But now he comes forward and reaches out. Their fingers touch. Their palms slide together. His hand engulfs hers. Always so so warm. He gives her one solid pump and lets go.

 

“Goodbye, Miss Winter-Moth.”

 

She frowns slightly - it seems a slightly odd thing to say, for some reason.

 

He strides out and the floorboards under her feet shake a little.

 

She drops down into her chair. It was all very civil, no arguing whatsoever, and that’s a relief. This is what they are now – strictly professional.

 

***

 

He fucked up, he knows that.

 

He doesn’t know why he said he wasn’t jealous and had given up thinking of “that matter”. She was practically inviting him to tell her he loved her. He should’ve just said, “Yes, I’m fucking jealous!” and thrown himself at her feet and begged her to be with him and not _that man_ and confessed his undying love. He should’ve behaved like an absolute fool, in other words.

 

Instead, she went to _that man_ and Ben hasn’t slept since, knowing she’s being touched and fucked by someone else.

 

He’s nothing but conflict these days, torn limb from limb by opposing forces: Deep and obsessive love. Omnipresent, thrumming anger. Being a good friend (which she seems disinterested in but is one of the few things she ever asked of him). Knowing he’s not worthy enough to lick shit off her boots. Desperation to hold onto shreds of his own dignity and identity.

 

However, if he’s honest, if he really did have _any_ dignity, or any actual desire to be his own man, he’d leave her as soon as possible.

 

But he can’t. Not yet anyway.

 

So instead he’s running her farm while she’s...wherever. Somewhere. With _that man_. He knows she’s with him because _that man_ hasn’t been around either. No one knows where they’ve gone, not even Mr. Finn.

 

She said she’d be back tomorrow, so this is his last night of walking her property alone in the dark while the rest of the farm sleeps. He makes sure everything that needs locking up is locked, everything that needs shutting is shut, everything that can escape can’t escape, and everything that shouldn’t be on fire isn’t on fire.

 

He’s making his way around the back of the manor house when he stops short. There’s a light on in one of the windows, on the second floor. The house staff doesn’t sleep in the house, so someone must’ve forgotten a lamp before they left for the night. Now he’s got to go up there and extinguish it.

 

But then the window opens, its hinges squeaking as it swings out. For a brief moment, he thinks of the angry things he’s going to shout at whomever is loitering up there, but then he sees who’s standing at the window and his heart stops.

 

Not a loiterer.

 

It’s Rey.

 

She’s naked.

 

The lamplight is mostly behind her but enough light falls on her that he can see...everything.

 

He doesn’t move.

 

He doesn’t think she can see him. He’s not directly in front of her window and she’s not looking down at him and he doesn’t have his lantern on.

 

So he looks. And doesn’t look away.

 

She’s beautiful but he knew that already. He just didn’t know how beautiful.

 

She’s very slim but he knew that already, too. When he carried her broken, lifeless body out of the carcass of a giant starship buried in the desert, she was way too thin, bony in his arms. He’d made it his mission to feed her as much as he could after that.

 

Now she looks well-fed and strong, the curve of her hips slight but healthy, her thighs smooth and soft, her belly firm and not sunken in.

 

The perfect triangle of dark hair at the apex of her thighs makes him want to die from need.

 

Her breasts are everything. Pert, round, rose-tipped confections. They would be small in his fumbling hands and delicious in his mouth.

 

Her skin looks like sculpture. Her cheeks are pink. Her hair is falling down.

 

She’s too much.

 

But really she could shave her long hair off and never wash and be wrinkly and saggy and have spots and pitted skin and he wouldn’t care. To him, because she is she, she is perfect and beautiful. He’s blind, maybe, but it’s true.

 

“Hey, you. Come here,” he hears someone say, quiet from this distance.

 

She turns now, looking over her shoulder.

 

There’s someone up there with her.

 

He knows who it is, of course.

 

He’s already frozen to the spot but now he’s frozen inside too.

 

“Come here, Mrs. Dameron. Mrs. Winter-Moth Dameron.”

 

She shuts the window and disappears from view.

 

He doesn’t move.

 

He stares up at the lit window.

 

He can’t even say he’s surprised. Maybe he is. He’s not sure. He’s not sure how he’s feeling just now. It’s like all his conflicts are a vast hurricane and right now, for the moment, he’s in the eye, the calm center, just his very edges being torn at by whipping winds.

 

What he should do is take his storm up there and blow down her door. Rip _that man_ off her and throw him bodily out the window. Claim Rey as his own.

 

No.

 

No, what he should do is storm up there, kick down her door, rip _that man_ off her, and make the little fucker _watch_ as he claims Rey. And then throw him out the window.

 

Yes.

 

Yes, he would go up there and barge in and pull that man away and push Rey down onto the bed. She’d be naked but he’d still have his clothes on. So he’d start to take them off, pull his boots off, pull his sweater over his head. She’d glance at _that man_ in the corner.

 

“No,” Kylo would tell her. “You don’t need to look at him. Look at me.”

 

So she would. She’d watch him take off his tunic and his pants. He’s seen her look at his body in the past, her eyes on his chest and his arms and his belly. From the bed, propped up on her elbows, she would stare up at his body and his big cock would get hard under her gaze.

 

He’d grab her ankle and tug her forward to the edge of the bed. He’d pull her leg up and kiss her ankle. Between her legs, he’d spy her lovely pink cunt, waiting for him.

 

He’d run his hand down to her knee, down the inside of her thigh. His mouth and tongue would follow, her leg hooked over his shoulder as he licked and kissed down down down until he’d finally be kneeling on the floor and sticking his tongue inside her pussy. She’d gasp and he’d fill his mouth with her.

 

He would reach up and cup her breasts and squeeze them and tease her nipples. He’d kiss her clit and lick it, lap at it, suck on it and not let up, drive her mad. She’d make indecent sounds and grind against his face.

 

Then she’d arch up under his hands and shout loudly and slam her heel into his back and come just like that, just from his mouth and his hands on her tits.

 

He’d kiss over her clenching pussy and stroke her thighs until she settled and relaxed. She’d tug on his hair and he’d finally lift his head and take in the sight of her fevered, flushed face and her shining, glazed eyes and her heaving breasts. She’d looked wrecked and stunned and sated and glowing.

 

Because that man, _that_ _other man_ , he has no fucking idea how to make a desert flower bloom.

 

He’d glance over his shoulder at that other man, still huddled in the corner with a shriveled dick. He’d rise and grab that other man by his hair and throw him right out the second floor window, right through the glass and the glazing.

 

He’d go back to her on the bed and lay along side her and pull her into his arms and kiss her sweet mouth. His flower. “Mine,” he’d tell her.

 

But in reality, in the grass outside her window, he simply turns and walks away on numb legs and feet.

 

He finds himself in his little cottage some time later. He doesn’t really remember the walk down.

 

He doesn’t bother to light the fire in the stove.

 

He sits alone in the dark and pumps his hand over his dick hard and fast, thinking of her naked body, no longer imaginary. He thinks of her fucking another man and comes hot and sticky all over his hand and his tunic. He curls up on his bed, leaving the mess, feeling gross. He doesn’t sleep.

 

TBC.


	14. The Night of the Storm

 

He stands with Skywalker in the meadow and they watch as the new ewes he purchased in town amble away, heading for the rest of the flock grazing up the hill.

 

“They’ll be good breeders for you,” he tells Skywalker. “And the new tups are strong, healthy. Lot of good lambs in the spring--“

 

“So I heard your mistress got herself married,” his uncle interrupts, almost blurting it out like he’s been holding it in for too long.

 

“Um. Yeah.”

 

“Why?”

 

The old man is steadily watching the flock, trying to give nothing away. Stupid old fool with his stupid crush on a girl one-third his age, a girl who has zero interest in him and never will – why can’t he see that, why is he so silly, why can’t he just accept it? Ridiculous, ridiculous fool. It’s like looking in a mirror.

 

“She wanted to, that’s why,” Ben finally answers, snapping at him.

 

“But does she love him?”

 

He grinds his teeth. “How the fuck should I know?”

 

“I thought she might’ve explained it to you.”

 

“She doesn’t have to explain a fucking thing to me or you or anyone.”

 

Skywalker looks at him now, his blue eyes always so cutting but now so sad. “You didn’t used to swear.”

 

He turns around, ready to leave, his work here done and this conversation over. But he pauses and grudgingly offers up, “I’m going to the Coruscant livestock exchange next month. The best stock will be there, far better than what’s in town. I’m buying for the Grange, but I can buy for you, too. If you want.”

 

“That would be great, kid. Thank you.”

 

He starts down the hill.

 

“I told your parents you’re here, Ben.”

 

That stops him. His first instinct is to punch his uncle in the face. “Why?”

 

“I thought they should know you’re not dead.”

 

“As if they care,” he says, knowing it’s childish.

 

Skywalker rolls his eyes. “Of course they do. They miss you. They love you. They love you so much, Ben.”

 

Something sharp and painful suddenly buzzes through his body. His eyes prick and he’s humiliated. He walks away without another word, stomping down the hill. He will _not_ cry. Especially not in front of that old bastard, not ever again – another thing he promised himself a long, long, long time ago.

 

_They love you so much, Ben_.

 

He fights the sharp buzzing, trying to shove it down.

 

_They love you so much, Ben_.

 

No.

 

Wrong. Or just blatant lies.

 

Their rejection, his insignificance, his undeserving worthlessness – _that’s_ the truth. That’s right and real. That’s reality.

 

***

 

He’s working on the winter budget, three ledgers spread out in front of him on the desk, when there’s a knock on the office door. He looks up. Mr. Finn is there, frowning.

 

“There’s a man here asking for Mr. Dameron.”

 

“Tell him he’s not here.”

 

Mrs. Dameron has gone off-moon again, taking her husband with her, but Kylo knows where and why they’ve left this time – to Ceathea’s mother planet Nevoota to see seed suppliers. That’s sure to be thrilling for Mr. Dameron. Good thing there are plenty of gin palaces on Nevoota.

 

“I did, but--“

 

“Tell whoever it is to go away.”

 

“I did, but--“

 

“It’s a matter of some importance,” a man interjects, squeezing past Mr. Finn in the doorway and stepping into the office.

 

Kylo eyes the stranger. He’s a skinny, pasty young man, his black clothes expensive but vulgar, too shiny. His red hair is plastered down to his skull, but the oiliness doesn’t stop at his hair, it seems to ooze from the man’s very essence. And his face – like he’s been sucking on bitter Roonan lemons his whole adult life.

 

“All right,” he tells Mr. Finn, nodding at him once, sending him away. Mr. Finn nods back and disappears down the hall, leaving him alone with this...person. “Who are you?” he demands.

 

“Mr. Hux. I’m an associate of Mr. Dameron.”

 

“What do you want?”

 

“Well I heard he got married to some rich heiress, so it’s really Mrs. Dameron I came to see.”

 

His hands curl into fists. “What do you want?” he repeats, biting out each word.

 

“Poe Dameron owes me money,” Hux says, getting to it. Red flares before Kylo’s eyes. He should’ve fucking known. “He can’t pay. But his wife can.”

 

“No.”

 

Mr. Hux squints at him. “No what?”

 

“No.”

 

“No, she can’t pay?”

 

“She can. But she won’t be.”

 

“Who are you, her little guard doggy?”

 

Kylo picks up his pen again and looks at his ledgers. “Leave. Now.”

 

He waits for the man to shuffle out. He hears the floorboards creak, the man’s shiny black boots step away, the office door close.

 

“She will pay,” the man says then, still here. He’s closed the office door. “She’ll pay one way or another.”

 

In the blink of an eye, Kylo’s in front of Mr. Hux. “What did you fucking say?”

 

This Hux person has the balls to repeat himself. “I said she’ll pay one way or another. _Doggy_.”

 

Kylo is used to towering over people but this man is tall. However, Kylo’s a lot stronger and has no trouble shoving him against the office door and pinning him there with a hand clamped around his scrawny neck. “ _Fuck you_.”

 

Hux’s eyes get big as saucers, just for a moment, but he’s a cool customer. “I’m sure your bite is as bad as your bark, sir, but I have other associates. They are waiting to hear from me now. I pay these associates to do things. They’ve been in and out of various prisons and penal colonies and aren’t polite like me. And they don’t smell very nice. Your mistress can pay me two thousand credits and be rid of me forever, guaranteed. Or my associates can come visit her. And make her pay.”

 

Kylo’s hand tightens, squeezing the man’s throat. Hux’s face starts to get red and his breathing grows ragged. “No,” Kylo repeats, growling like the guard dog he is.

 

Mr. Hux looks surprised at that, even as he struggles for breath. Kylo slams Hux’s head against the wooden door – hard enough, but not hard enough to knock him out or draw blood.

 

“ _I’ll_ pay,” he spits. “I’ll transfer the credits from my account to yours right here, right now. And then I’m going to break your hand. And then you’re going to leave this place and never come back. Your associates will never come here. If they do, I will kill them and then find and kill you. You will never loan money to Poe Dameron again. Do you understand all of that, Mr. Hux?”

 

Hux nods – as much as he can with his head pinned to the door.

 

“I didn’t hear.”

 

“Yes,” Hux chokes out.

 

***

 

Two thousand credits is almost everything he’s managed to save over the past few months. It doesn’t matter.

 

He breaks Hux’s hand with his own, quickly and efficiently. Then he gives him an old rag to wrap it up with. Then he escorts him off Stardew Grange.

 

***

He’s not used to the weather on this moon. It’s winter but the weather has been dry and calm and mild. Yesterday was even hot like summer. Today it’s cold. It’s been drizzling rain since lunchtime. Now, with the sun down, the rain is turning to ice, the temperature plummeting. Worse is the wind kicking up. There’s no mistaking the storm blowing in.

 

Ben glares at the six naked and unprotected hayricks in the lower stable yard. One-third of their hay harvest. Their livestock will starve without it.

 

He’s _furious_.

 

These should’ve been covered with tarps but have somehow gotten overlooked, he knows not how. His fault, most likely. This storm will destroy these ricks.

 

As if to confirm what’s coming, a rumble of thunder rolls over the land and Ben knows he doesn’t have much time.

 

He jogs over the cart bridge spanning the creek and back up to the farm, through the gravel yard and up to the stone barn. There’s a Winter Solstice ball going on tonight, not that he’s gone anywhere near it, nor wants to. He can hear it before he reaches the door – the shouting and the laughter, the singing and the lively music.

 

He slips inside and scans the room. A fiddle band saws away and the floor has been cleared for dancing, though he’s not sure it can be called _dancing_ , the way folk are stumbling about and spinning around. He sighs. They’re all fucking drunk, every single one of them. He needs help covering the hayricks, but ain’t none of these bastards fit to _stand_ let alone climb up on top of a rick.

 

He’s about to leave and do it all himself when Mr. Dameron staggers over and gives his arm a whack, shouting, “Well if it isn’t Shepherd Ren! Come to have a dance, big boy?”

 

He clenches his jaw and looks over the top of Dameron’s head. “There’s a storm coming. I need some help covering the--“

 

“Aw, don’t worry about it, it never storms on Ceathea, trust me.”

 

Now he glares down at this idiot, flat and hard. “Is the Mistress here?”

 

“She’ll tell you the same. It never storms.” Dameron waves his hand dismissively, sloshing some whisky out of his glass. “Anyway, she’s gone to bed already. Where I intend to join her. Eventually.”

 

Kylo grinds his teeth, his hands curling up into fists. But before he can do something impulsive and violent, Miss Connix lurches up and says far too loudly, “I’m surprised he doesn’t know where the Mistress is at all times. Always clinging to her skirts, isn’t he?” She’s eyeing Kylo in an unfocused way but to Dameron she says, “Did you know they used to be sweethearts before they came here?”

 

He’s never hit a woman and he never would, but he _is_ about to tell this silly bitch to shut the fuck up.

 

“That’s not true, they weren’t sweethearts,” Mr. Finn interrupts, appearing on the scene from who knows where. “Miss Winter-- Mrs. Dameron said so herself ages ago.”

 

Ben aches a little bit inside, to hear that.

 

“Is that right?” Dameron says coolly, looking Kylo up and down, something a bit... _lascivious_ in his drunken gaze. “You weren’t sweethearts?”

 

“No, of course not,” he answers immediately.

 

“I mean I can’t say I’d blame her. A big strapping lad like you.”

 

Kylo stares at Dameron and remembers the fantasy he had of having sex with Rey in front of her husband before tossing him out the window. How Dameron’s dick would be shriveled in shame. Now he’s not sure. Something tells him Dameron’s dick would be full as hell watching him strip bare-naked and fuck.

 

“There’s a storm coming,” he repeats flatly. “I need help covering the hayricks--“

 

“I tell you there’s no fucking storm coming!” Dameron shouts, totally losing his cool-guy head. Just for a moment. Then he smiles again, all white teeth. “Relax, buddy. Have a beer, come on.”

 

Kylo turns his back on the party and walks out of the barn and straight into a gust of icy wind. But as he trudges away, the front door of the manor house opens, spilling light into the gravel yard. A figure stands in the doorway, a silhouette against the light.

 

“Kylo!” Rey calls from the doorway.

 

He changes course, heads her way. “Yes, miss,” he answers, forgetting to call her _ma’am_ instead. She’s in a dress, her hair still done – clearly she was not yet in bed, despite what Dameron said.

 

“There’s a storm coming,” she says.

 

“I know. The hayricks in the lower stable--“

 

“Shit, you’re right,” she interrupts, seemingly knowing what he’s about to say. He would smile in another circumstance because he hasn’t heard her curse in ages. “Wait for me, I’ll get my cloak.”

 

***

 

It’s horrible.

 

Icy rain is already falling and the wind blowing fierce and steady by the time they get across the cart bridge and down to the lower stable yard with tarps and ropes and a ladder.

 

They very quickly get soaked. They nearly get blown off the tops of the ricks dozens of times. Their fingers are soon numb, making the whole thing that much harder. One of the tarps they’ve just tied down over a tall rick comes loose somehow and goes sailing away into the darkness and they have to start that rick all over again with their one spare tarp.

 

It takes forever. It’s an eight-person job done by two people – one of them in a dress – in the pitch dark, intermittent lightning and two ineffectual lanterns the only things to work by other than feel. But they get it done together, all the hayricks covered and battened and secure, and they haven’t broken their necks in the process somehow.

 

They grab their lanterns and he grabs her hand and they run for it, hurrying down the path toward the cart bridge to get home and warm and dry. But when his boots splash in water, when the thin light of his lantern shows rushing water ahead of him, he stops short, Rey bumping into him from behind.

 

“What is it?” she shouts above the gale. Then she sees ahead. “Is that--is that the _creek_?”

 

It looks like a raging river right now. The cart bridge is nowhere to be seen, flooded over or washed away entirely.

 

There’s no way across.

 

***

 

The lower stable is where the banthas are kept. That’s for a reason – banthas stink like hell and the lower stables are downwind from the manor house. But it’s either hole up in a bantha-stinking stable or freeze to death outside. And the stable has a small fireplace to keep the place from icing up in the dead of winter.

 

Kylo gets a fire lit but it’s not easy – she sees how his big hands shake with cold and he drops the matches a few times. But then there’s heat and light and she practically crawls _into_ the fireplace, crouching up small and hugging her arms around herself. Even so, she’s still shivering violently. Her hair and her dress and her slip underneath are soaked. Her hands are ice cubes under her arms, her wedding ring turning loose around her finger. It feels like the icy rain is running through her veins instead of blood.

 

Beside her, Kylo looks just as miserable, sitting there cross-legged on the dirt floor and rocking back and forth slightly.

 

“Ever th-th-thought you’d miss Jakku?” she asks him, struggling through chattering teeth.

 

“No,” he deadpans and she has to laugh at that. He smiles, she can tell – somewhere way down deep, he’s smiling. That warms her a little.

 

“Th-think warm th-thoughts,” she encourages. “Lying on top of a s-s-sand dune at midday.”

 

“Dragging your speeder all the way back to Niima Outpost when it broke down that one time. At midday. Remember that?”

 

“Y-y-yes!” She laughs, recalling it. Her leg was still broken at the time and they’d gone to Niima to see the med droid again for a check-up. “I’d give anything to be th-that disgustingly hot right now.”

 

“You weren’t the one dragging the speeder.”

 

True. She’d been sitting on the fuselage like it was a sled. She pouts theatrically and defends herself, teasing him. “Well that metal was hot to sit on.”

 

“Mm.”

 

She laughs again but it’s cut short when a hard shiver rips through her. “I’m f-f-f-fucking f-f-f-freezing.”

 

He’s quiet for a long moment. Then he pushes himself up to his feet and moves away, disappearing into the shadows of the stable.

 

She watches over her shoulder as he moves around back there. “What are you d-d-doing?”

 

He comes back to the light with a length of rope – left over from securing the hayricks. He looks around and seems to find what he wants, tying one end of the rope around something sticking out of the wall above – a hook, maybe, for hanging up tools. He stretches the rope out and finds another tie-point somewhere in the shadows. Ah – a clothesline. Genius.

 

Except...

 

Except that means...he means for clothes to hang on it.

 

His back is to her when pulls his wet sweater over his head. He hangs it over the rope. She stares as he pulls his wet tunic off and hangs that up, too. He’s naked from the waist up and her eyes are glued to his broad, strong, pale back. He undoes his wet, muddy trousers and pushes them down. She’s thankful, she thinks, that he’s wearing underwear, but they’re tight and thin and damp and don’t leave much to the imagination. She can see the firm but slight curves of his round ass and she quickly looks away, flustered, when he bends over to pull off his wet socks and grab his trousers and hang them all on the rope.

 

He turns to her and she can’t help it, she never can – she stares at his broad, carved chest. And then, all the stars help her, she really can’t help it – she looks at his crotch. She can see his cock, the shape of it, in his clingy shorts. It’s...it’s shocking. She looks away immediately.

 

“Take your clothes off,” he says flatly.

 

Her face gets hot. Honestly? This is a really terrible idea.

 

But she thinks she knows his intention here. And she trusts him.

 

And she’s freezing in these clothes.

 

She stands up and reaches behind her head to undo the button at the neck of her dress. She pushes the long sleeves down and pushes the dress down over her hips and lets it pool at her feet, leaving her in her thin slip. He’s looking at her but his face gives nothing away. She picks up the dress and tosses it to him. While he’s turned away, carefully spreading it over the clothesline, she considers her slip. It’s wet but preserves her modesty as much as any dress. But...she is wearing underwear underneath. So she pushes the slip off too and tosses that to Kylo.

 

She stands by the fire and waits for him and forces herself to keep her arms at her sides, not cross them over her chest. There’s no need to – her underwear covers her fine, she’s still got plenty of modesty intact, she’s just...this is all just... She shivers again.

 

He turns back to face her and she pretends not to notice how his eyes scour down her body.

 

He comes back to the fire and sits cross-legged on the floor again, at her feet. He reaches up but doesn’t touch her. “Come here.”

 

She hesitates a brief moment before taking his hand and using it for leverage as she lowers herself down onto his lap.

 

He shifts her slightly so she’s settled on his thick thigh and then his arms come around and hold her firmly against his firm, naked chest. She has no choice – she has to press her face against his neck. She remembers this, too, from Jakku, from riding her speeder together.

 

His hands on her back and on her side are so warm, like always. His chest is warm against her, his neck hot. He’s like a human furnace and she wonders how the cold could ever bother him at all, how the icy raindrops didn’t just sizzle away as soon as they touched him. She burrows closer, eager for his warmth.

 

Skin-on-skin contact, using their own body heat to get warm again. It’s the best way, everyone knows that. Better than sitting in wet clothes, waiting to dry out. That’s all this is - practical.

 

She shivers again and his hands move, rubbing over her bare arm, rubbing up and down her back, his palm catching a little on the band of her brassiere. He rubs her bare legs, from her ankles to her knees but no higher.

 

“You’re freezing,” he comments, rubbing harder, vigorous.

 

“I told you,” she murmurs against his neck.

 

She closes her eyes and lets herself relax into him and tries to forget what a bad idea this is. Even though _nothing_ is going to happen here tonight. Even though no one will catch them like this, no one will ever know.

 

Her body unclenches all over – she was holding her every muscle so tight, trying to keep warm. But now she’s already feeling warm. Like magic, this skin-on-skin thing. Funny how that works.

 

She turns her head a little to watch the fire and they’re quiet for a time. It’s nice. Familiar. Except for the touching and rubbing and sitting entwined together in their undies. “All we need is some sewing for you to do,” she says. He doesn’t ask what she means, just gives her a little squeeze, and she knows he’s thinking of Jakku, too.

 

“I’m sorry, Kylo.”

 

His hands go still but don’t leave her. “For what?”

 

“For telling you to...to ‘know your place’. Before. When I sent that stupid card to your uncle.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“You were trying to be a friend and I was a bitch about it.”

 

He squeezes her again. “Shh. You weren’t.”

 

“I was.”

 

“No, Rey.”

 

She turns her face into his neck again and closes her eyes. “You’re my first friend. You’re my very best friend, you always have been.”

 

“And you’re mine.”

 

“I am?”

 

“Of course. Who else?”

 

“I know I’m not your equal, you being a prince and all, but I--“

 

“No,” he interrupts, shaking his head, his chin rubbing against her drying hair. “You’re so far above me. I’m the one... It’s _me_ who isn’t _your_ equal, Rey.”

 

“How can you say that?”

 

“Because it’s true.”

 

“No it isn’t.”

 

“Yes it is.”

 

“You’re ridiculous.”

 

“No, you are.”

 

She sighs. “Shall we agree to disagree?”

 

“No.”

 

She laughs a little. “Okay, then can we just draw a line under all that and agree to be equals from now on?”

 

“If you like.”

 

She pokes him in the stomach. “I’m serious, Ben.”

 

“I know you are, flower.”

 

“No more Shepherd Ren or Mr. Ren or Miss Winter-Moth or Miss or whatever else. Just Kylo and Rey. No matter what, no matter who’s around.”

 

“Okay,” he says simply and rubs her legs again. It feels good, his hand rough and huge. She should tell him she’s plenty warm now, but she doesn’t.

 

It’s not enough, she knows - calling each other by their first names when staff is around. That’s not being true equals. “And we should run the farm together. Co-manage it.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“I’d like that.”

 

But still it feels unsettled to her, like it’s not enough. She’d still be his boss, technically, still paying him a salary. “Maybe... Maybe we should talk about being business partners.”

 

His hands still again. “What?”

 

“You should own part of the farm. Fifty percent. Profit from it equally.”

 

He’s quiet. Then clears his throat. “I-I can’t, I don’t have the capital to put into it.”

 

She shakes her head and lays her hand on his chest, on his hard and fleshy breast. “You have _yourself_. That’s worth a lot more to me.” He sighs and her head rises and falls with his chest. “I’d sign over the fifty percent to you.”

 

“You can’t do that, Rey.”

 

“Yes, I can.”

 

“No, you can’t.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“Because I’m not your--“ He stops.

 

“What?”

 

He’s quiet. She resists the urge to pinch his nipple and twist it until he relents. “Because I’m not your husband.”

 

“What does that have to do with anything?”

 

He’s quiet for a long moment. “Nothing, I guess?”

 

“Nothing, that’s right. It’s got nothing to do with him. It’s between you and me.”

 

He’s quiet again. “Can I think about it?”

 

“Of course. It’s a lot to consider. A lot of risk and responsibility.”

 

“Mm. But don’t think I don’t appreciate it. I do. Very much.”

 

She nods and they fall silent, companionably so. He stops rubbing her skin but rocks her slightly, gently, slowly, in his arms. She’s falling asleep, she can feel it, her limbs getting heavy.

 

“Rey?”

 

She rouses only slightly. “Hmm?”

 

“Why did you...“

 

“Hmm?”

 

“Never mind.”

 

She huffs and presses her fingertips into his pec. “I _will_ twist your nipple, Ben Solo.”

 

“Promises promises.”

 

She laughs. She’s pretty sure no one but her knows how funny he is. “What were you gonna ask?”

 

“Doesn’t matter.” She hums against his neck, not satisfied. He rocks her. “Go to sleep, flower.”

 

She falls asleep wondering why he’s started calling her that but happy he has.

 

TBC.


	15. The Day of the Storm

He wakes up lying on the dirt floor and pressed along Rey’s side, his arm flung over her belly and his leg wedged between hers. His cock is half-hard and he drowsily thrusts against her hip, just once, without meaning to. It feels _good_ but he realizes immediately what he’s done, waking quickly now, and scoots away, putting a little distance between their bodies, sliding his leg from between hers. She shifts slightly but doesn’t wake and he waits for his cock to soften.

 

From the high, grimy window, pale light falls down on them like dust. Morning. Early. Looking at her body in the soft light doesn’t ease the pressure in his cock, but he does it anyway, taking the opportunity while she’s so close. Because he’s selfish, needy, and desperate.

 

He props himself up on his forearm and traces her soft curves and smooth planes with his eyes. He lets himself remember what’s underneath her plain cotton underwear. With the fire low now, it’s chilly in here and her nipples are hard, peaked under the tight cotton, tempting as hell. Her face is turned away a bit, her smooth neck exposed. He watches her pulse thump faintly there. He’d like to mark her there with his mouth. A nasally snore escapes her pink, parted lips. He’d like to slip his tongue between her lips and kiss her awake.

 

He thinks about the night they slept together like this on Jakku. Their last night together before she went away. She’d been angry with him before they slept and then after, but she was so soft and dear in sleep. He’d thought that was the best night of his life.

 

No longer.

 

Last night was the best of his entire life, without question.

 

Holding her so tenderly.

 

Keeping her warm and safe.

 

Getting to touch her.

 

The feel of her soft skin on his skin.

 

And under his brutish hands.

 

The smell of her skin – sweaty and earthy, like the mud and rain they’d been working in.

 

Her hand on his chest – like she liked his body, liked touching it.

 

Just talking with her. About their past. About their future.

 

Mending their battered and broken friendship.

 

He sighs a little, thinking of how she’d thought herself “beneath him” all this time and vice versa. It’s well and good to draw a line under all of that, as she said, but it’s easier _said_ than _done_ , at least for him. A lifetime of thinking himself shit isn’t something that can be erased in an evening, not even by his sweet beautiful flower.

 

But then he thinks about the other things she said last night, how she said she values him. That means something. That means so much.

 

So he’ll try, he’ll try harder. For her. He’ll try to live up to what she thinks of him. He wants to be her equal and believe it of himself.

 

He watches her wake now, her eyes blinking open. He sees her frown a bit, her brow wrinkling up, like maybe she’s not sure where she is. But then she turns her head and looks up at him. Her frown disappears immediately and she smiles at him warm, soft, happy, lovely.

 

“Ben,” she says and then she yawns hugely. And then she stretches just as hugely, her arms reaching far above her head, her back arching off the ground, her legs pulling tight, her whole body tight and quivering all over just a little. She groans loudly and fuck _fuck_ he’s never seen anything so fucking sexy. His head swims with need.

 

She flops back down onto the floor, her tits jiggling a little, and she smiles up at him again. “Did you sleep?” she asks.

 

“No. You snore.”

 

“I do not!”

 

“I thought it was the banthas at first.”

 

She smacks his bare arm hard. “You’re such a liar,” she grouses but she’s laughing, smiling up at him, her eyes bright. He stares at her and she stares back like that and a long moment passes, silent and full.

 

He imagines getting to see her like this every morning, sleepy and sexy and flirty and naked and unguarded. He imagines waking up with her every day. On a dirt floor. Because that’s all he can give her right now.

 

“We should go,” he says.

 

Her smile fades slightly but she nods.

 

He rolls away, getting up. He doesn’t help her up – he’s still hard. He keeps his back to her and starts to dress.

 

***

 

The world is coated in ice this morning, the rain having frozen as it fell deep into the night. Everything is glassy, sparkling in the sunlight. She takes his arm to keep from slipping as they cross the cart bridge, which happily didn’t wash away.

 

She keeps hold of his arm, just in case, as they trudge up to the farmstead.

 

They talk business as they walk – how they’re going to divvy up the management duties, now that they’re co-overseers. She can tell he’s pleased and excited by this new arrangement – he seems _lighter_ somehow. He seems revived this morning. And that makes her proud, happy. She’d been thinking for a while now that she’d lost her friend, pushed him too far away. But here he is, right beside her. She leans into his sturdy arm.

 

What she’s _not_ proud of is what went through her mind just a handful of minutes earlier, in the stable, after she woke up. They were lying there and flirting with each other and looking at each other and just for a moment she’d wondered what it’d be like to have sex with him right there on the floor.

 

No. That’s not right.

 

She hadn’t wondered. She’d _wanted_ to have sex with him right there on the floor.

 

What she’d _wondered_ , just for the briefest moment, was whether they could get away with it, whether anyone would ever find out.

 

Luckily the moment had passed, broken when he got up to dress.

 

No, she’s not proud of herself for that, not at all.

 

They pass under the stone gate into the farmyard and Poe is there, leaning against a fence. Clearly waiting for her. Her stomach drops and she lets go of Ben’s arm.

 

“Where the hell have you been?” Poe demands.

 

“Saving the harvest from the storm,” Kylo answers flatly.

 

“Wasn’t talking to you, pal,” Poe says abruptly. His eyes rake over her, and then over Kylo, and she realizes what a mess they are – their clothes muddy, their hair scraggly and disheveled. There’s still a bit of hay in Kylo’s hair, actually. They probably look like they’ve been rolling around on the ground together, which they sort of were.

 

But they didn’t. They didn’t do anything wrong.

 

She straightens up, nettled and defensive. “The ricks weren’t covered and since the rest of you were _drunk_ and _useless_ last night, we had to do it ourselves. And then the creek flooded so we were stuck.”

 

“I see, I see,” Poe says, nodding. Clearly not believing her.

 

“ _What_?” she prods.

 

But Poe doesn’t answer, just shrugs, because now folk are starting to emerge from the stone barn, yawning and blinking and squinting against the sunlight. Hung over, all of them.

 

She eyes them, steaming, ready to give them all a good bollocking. A few of them have the decency to look chagrined. Some of them are trying to slip away unnoticed.

 

“Wait right there, you lot,” Kylo barks out to the would-be shirkers. To her, he asks quietly, “Rey, you want to say something to them or should I?”

 

But before she can answer, Poe springs forward from the fence and roars, “That’s _Mrs. Dameron_ to you, shepherd!”

 

That stops everyone cold.

 

“Poe,” she says sharply, warningly.

 

He ignores her, coming closer, glaring at Kylo. “Say it.”

 

“Say what?” Kylo asks blandly.

 

“ _Mrs. Dameron_ ,” Poe says, enunciating pointedly.

 

“All right, enough,” she insists, very aware of everyone watching the three of them.

 

But he still ignores her. “Say it.”

 

Kylo is silent beside her.

 

“Why can’t you say it, huh?” Poe demands, not being quiet. “Because you’re fucking my wife, is that it--“

 

“Poe!” she cries, shocked.

 

But Poe takes another step closer to Kylo. “How long you been fucking her, huh? Since the beginning?”

 

Kylo says nothing but she can hear his harsh breathing, knows his outrage is matching hers.

 

“You’re being an asshole,” she hisses, grabbing Poe’s arm, digging her fingers in.

 

Poe rips his arm away. “Don’t touch me, you whore.”

 

She’s stunned frozen like he’s just slapped her.

 

But Kylo reacts immediately, grabbing Poe by his jacket, jerking him off his feet. “What did you fucking say?” he growls, his voice lower and harsher than she’s ever heard it.

 

“He said she’s a _whore_ ,” someone cries out. Rey looks – Miss Connix, her face pinched in disgust, stumbles forward. Miss Connix glares, pointing accusingly. “You’re a whore!”

 

“Kaydel!” Mr. Finn cries, looking as shocked as Rey feels through and through. She can’t even speak.

 

“You gonna hit me, big boy? Go on then, do it. Hit me, asshole,” Poe taunts Kylo, practically licking his lips. Kylo jerks Poe again.

 

Violence hovers, she can feel it. “Enough! Stop it now!” she shouts, finding her voice, trying to derail disaster.

 

And Kylo lets go immediately, pushing Poe back a little. Kylo glances at her, his eyes steely but his voice gentle when he says, “I’m sorry, Rey.”

 

Poe throws himself forward, shoving Kylo hard in the chest. Kylo’s bigger, stronger, but even so stumbles back a step or two. Still, he doesn’t retaliate, doesn’t stoop to Poe’s level. She shouts again but Poe ignores her again and swings out, his fist connecting with Kylo’s jaw.

 

Everything stops. Just for a moment.

 

Then everything happens quickly and Kylo hits back and Poe is suddenly on the ground, flat on his back, and Kylo is leaning over him, grabbing the front of his tunic and lifting him up so he can hit him again and again.

 

But then Kylo suddenly lets him go and Poe drops like a sack of flour. There’s blood smeared over Poe’s nose and mouth. Kylo steps away, breathing hard, and looks at her and she stares back, speechless, her hands covering her mouth.

 

“He _cannot_ talk to you like that, Rey,” Ben rumbles, his fists still clenched. She sees blood on his knuckles.

 

“I know,” she says shakily.

 

“What’re you going to do about it?”

 

She doesn’t know. She can’t answer.

 

“I can’t stay here, not with that man here.”

 

She sucks in a sharp breath.

 

Ben reaches his hand out. “Come away with me, Rey.”

 

She looks at his hand, her own hands falling away from her face.

 

“Please.”

 

But before she can respond – not that she knows how she would – Kylo staggers forward and then drops to his knees in the gravel. He touches the back of his head and comes away with blood. A lot of blood.

 

She looks. Poe stands behind him, a large stone in his hand. Blood on the stone.

 

Things seem to slow way down after that but also skip ahead in strange ways, like she’s looking at a malfunctioning holovid.

 

Poe shoving Ben down with his foot.

 

The blaster strapped to Mr. Finn’s thigh.

 

Blood glistening in Ben’s dark hair.

 

Knowing Poe’s going to kill him.

 

Poe raising the stone high again.

 

Mr. Finn’s blaster in her hand.

 

Poe crying out, dropping the stone, grabbing the side of his arm where she’s just shot him.

 

She aims the blaster at the center of his chest. It doesn’t sound like her own voice when she says, “Get off my land.”

 

Poe gapes at her, shocked. “Rey--“

 

“Leave,” she demands.

 

“But--“

 

“Leave. _Now_. Your things will be sent to you.”

 

He stares, still gaping, like he’s still not processing. But then his face closes up, twisting into something vicious. “You know why I married you?” he asks. “Huh?”

 

He seems to actually want an answer, but she says nothing.

 

“For your money,” he spits. “I could never love you, you’re _nothing_ to me.”

 

Her hand tightens on the blaster, her finger tensing. But she feels calm, like a great still sea. “Get out.”

 

He smiles, all teeth and cruelty. He comes closer but she doesn’t move, just keeps the blaster aimed at his heart. He has to pass her to leave the property but suddenly he swerves off course and advances on Mr. Finn.

 

He grabs Mr. Finn’s tunic and yanks him close and kisses him hard on the mouth. It’s fast, over before Mr. Finn can even react. Nor can she react – it’s like she’s still watching that broken holovid.

 

“I married you because I couldn’t have _him_ ,” Poe says bitterly, pushing Mr. Finn away.

 

And then Poe stalks away, his boots kicking up gravel as he strides out of the farmyard.

 

No one moves or speaks.

 

Poe disappears around the stone yard wall and only then does she move, dropping the blaster and flinging herself down to Kylo’s side. She touches the blood on the back of his head and can feel a nasty cut there but nothing worse than that. Still, she screams at someone to get a doctor or a med droid here _now_.

 

With effort, she pushes Ben onto his side and pushes hair out of his face so she can see him. “Ben.” She pats his cheek a few times, slapping lightly. “Ben, can you hear me?”

 

His eyes open slowly. “I’m okay.”

 

“I’m getting a doctor.”

 

“Okay.”

 

She looks over her shoulder. No one has moved, all too stunned or too stupid to act.

 

She spots young Gav just arriving in the yard and looking around, clearly startled and confused by the tableau they all present. She points at him. “Gav, get on a fucking fathier and get a doctor right now.”

 

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, nodding and running to the stable.

 

Her hands are starting to shake. She feels sick to her stomach.

 

Mr. Finn seems to come out of his stunned confusion and he rushes to her side. “Let’s get him inside, Miss. He can rest in the parlor.”

 

She nods. “Can you get up, Kylo?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

She and Mr. Finn help Ben up to his feet and support him under his arms. He’s heavy on her shoulders but he can walk steadily enough so that’s good.

 

“I’m so sorry, Miss,” Mr. Finn says as they go. “I didn’t know, I had no idea, I swear I never--”

 

“It’s okay. I believe you.”

 

They don’t speak after that, just focus on getting Ben inside. But once he’s stretched out on the settee, she says to Mr. Finn, her voice flat, “Miss Connix is fired. Pay her what she’s owed. She has thirty minutes to get off my property.”

 

“Yes, Miss,” he says and hurries out.

 

She sits with Ben, perching on the edge of the settee and holding his hand, patting it continuously, saying...things, whatever, she doesn’t even know, just babbling about nothing. She can’t let him fall asleep while they wait, he might be concussed.

 

She feels sick, the shock and emotion and adrenaline and violence and humiliation of everything that’s just happened starting to flood her system. The sea no longer still but crashing in on her.

 

All she can hear ringing in her ears are nasty, venomous words.

_I never loved you._

_I could never love you._

_You’re nothing to me._

_You’re nothing._

_She’s a whore._

_You’re a whore._

_You whore._

_You whore you whore you whore._

_Whore._

_Whore._

_Whore._

_Whore._

 

TBC.


	16. The Proposal

“Will she see me?”

 

Mr. Finn shakes his head. “I asked her. Several times. I wheedled. I cajoled. I begged. But she won’t. I’m sorry, Mr. Ren. She won’t see anyone.”

 

“Except you.”

 

“Well...”

 

“It’s okay. I get it.” He thinks he gets it. She was humiliated, betrayed, used. And in some similar respects so was Mr. Finn.

 

“She hasn’t been out of her room in days. I take food up, but she won’t eat.”

 

He looks up, alarmed. “You have to get her to eat.”

 

“I’m trying, believe me,” Mr. Finn insists. “But it’s like... Well, she thinks everyone thinks she’s a...a whore.” Mr. Finn whispers this last part but it still makes Kylo flinch. “I tell her no one thinks that, they know it’s not true, but I don’t think she’s hearing me. And I’m not sure...”

 

“What?”

 

“I’m not sure I’m telling the truth.”

 

“Excuse me?” he says sharply.

 

“No no no, I don’t mean _that_. I mean, I’m not sure people don’t think... I think there _are_ people on the farm who probably do think that of her. They’d deny it to the end, but that’s how folk are, aren’t they?”

 

“Stupid, you mean,” Kylo spits bitterly.

 

“Yes.”

 

He sighs heavily, distressed. He so wishes he could talk to Rey and comfort her and hold her and take care of her. But he can’t. Because she believes everyone thinks she fucked him, cheated on her husband with him, was his whore.

 

“If you hear anyone, _anyone_ , talking that way about her, you come to me and you tell me. I’ll deal with it,” he instructs Mr. Finn. “Yes?”

 

“Of course, Mr. Ren.”

 

He grips Mr. Finn’s shoulder briefly. “Thank you. You’re a good friend to her.”

 

“Yeah, well.” Mr. Finn shrugs and frowns, looking sad. “I’m loyal to a fault. Sometimes that’s a gift and sometimes it’s a curse.”

 

Kylo studies the younger man and knows he’s thinking of his friendship with Dameron. He thinks of himself with Rey and he knows exactly how Mr. Finn feels.

 

***

 

Two days later and she’s still holed up in her room. But then Mr. Finn escorts a familiar visitor into the office and the visitor explains why he’s come to Stardew Grange and Kylo knows Rey will have to come out of her sequester.

 

He climbs the stairs to the second floor. He’s never been up here before. His boots creak on the worn floorboards as he walks down the dim hallway to her door. He knocks.

 

“Yes, Mr. Finn?” he hears her call from inside.

 

“It’s me, Rey.”

 

Silence from inside. He waits. And waits. “I-I’m...I’m not dressed. You’ll have to excuse me.”

 

“Please get dressed, Rey. Please come downstairs. There’s someone here to see you.”

 

“I don’t want to see anyone.”

 

“I know. And I understand, I do. But you need to in this case.”

 

She’s silent again for a long moment. Then the door opens – just a bit, just the width of his hand – and she’s there, peering up at him. “Why? Who is it?”

 

She _is_ dressed, he notes first. And her hair is washed and done. She’s not languishing in disarray, which is good. But she looks strained and brittle and tired.

 

“It’s your lawyer, Orion Tripp,” he tells her.

 

“Why is he here?”

 

“Um. I should let him tell you--“

 

“You tell me.”

 

He hesitates. He really doesn’t want to.

 

“Ben.”

 

He quickly thinks of a hundred ways to say this gently, carefully, euphemistically, elliptically. Finally he sighs and just says it. “Poe Dameron is dead.”

 

***

 

There’s a private cemetery on the Grange, at the edge of the property. Her parents and grandparents are buried there. Others, too – longtime tenant farmers or workers from the Grange. Dameron’s grandparents are buried there for that reason.

 

Rey holds a funeral for Dameron since he grew up here with his grandparents. A headstone is erected. Ben knows it’s not her first instinct, to give that man a funeral, nor is it his, but he thinks it’s a good idea. Dameron had long-time friends here – she couldn’t just ignore his death, they would’ve hated her for it. They all need some closure.

 

But there is no closure, not really, because there’s no body to bury.

 

She’d sat very stiffly in her chair in the office and Ben had stood just behind her while Orion Tripp had explained what happened in his overly matter-of-fact way.

 

Dameron’s ship, his A-wing interceptor, had crashed on the neighboring planet, Nevoota. He’d crashed into the sea and the mangled remains of the ship had been recovered but his body had not. The investigators had examined the A-wing and its flight data recorder. And they hadn’t found anything wrong with the ship. The weather had been calm and clear. Dameron was an expert pilot. The investigators were thus concluding he’d crashed deliberately. Suicide.

 

Kylo had watched Rey very closely, ready to steady her, but she hadn’t moved a muscle.

 

“Without a body, Mr. Dameron’s death is not official for a year from the date of the accident,” Tripp had told her and then said very tactfully, “But my understanding from the investigators is that it’s a foregone conclusion he’s dead, his remains on the ocean floor.” Tripp had tacked on a perfunctory, “I’m sorry for your loss, ma’am,” just like he had on that holovid Kylo and Rey had watched together on Jakku a million years ago.

 

“Thank you,” Rey had said calmly.

 

She’s been calm ever since, as far as Ben has observed. Or, rather, not calm, exactly. Composed. _Vigorously_ composed. She’s in shock, he reckons.

 

And Mr. Finn isn’t faring too well, either. He’s been dragging around the house looking miserable and confused.

 

The horrible truth, as Ben sees it, is that, in some twisted way, they probably both blame themselves for that fucking man’s death.

 

***

 

After the funeral, she stops hiding away in her room, which he’s glad about. Instead, however, she completely buries herself in work. It’s the middle of winter and there isn’t as much to do about the farm, but she still manages to work even harder than before – and that’s _with_ him co-managing things.

 

If she’s not doing some task outside, big or small, she’s at her desk working on her plans for the coming year. Plotting out a schedule of capital improvements to undertake. Researching more efficient farming techniques. Budgeting for new machinery. Figuring out all the tiny ways they can squeeze better yields from every inch of the land. Expanding the farm, increasing the profits, growing the business – it’s all she talks about. She seems obsessed with it.

 

The night before he’s due to leave for the Coruscant livestock exchange finds him with her in the parlor, sitting in armchairs before the fire. Earlier, they’d been going over his budget and plans for the livestock fair in her office. But when it’d gotten to be dinnertime, he’d managed to convince her to stop for half an hour and eat with him – not that she ate much, to his dismay. After dinner, he’d gotten her to retire not to the office but to the parlor, hoping to get her to relax for a little while and stop working, maybe play a game of holochess or read or something.

 

He lit the fire and they sat and watched the fire quietly and that lasted for about two minutes before she fetched her ledgers and her seed catalogs and started working again.

 

At least she’s letting him stick around and spend private time with her – that’s new.

 

“What are you doing?” she asks after a while when she finally looks up from her books.

 

He knows she hadn’t noticed him leave the room a half hour ago and fetch something from his satchel. “Knitting,” he says. There wasn’t any yarn to be had on Jakku so he never got to show off this particular skill before.

 

“Where did you learn to knit?”

 

“Palace nannies.”

 

“Oh. What are you making, a washcloth?”

 

“A blanket.”

 

“A really tiny blanket?”

 

“I only just started it yesterday.”

 

“Oh.”

 

He holds up the needles and the square of wool hanging off. “Want to try? I can show you how.”

 

She seems to be considering it. He’s hopeful, wanting to get her mind off business for a bit. But then she looks back to her ledger. “You should try to get a herding droid at the livestock fair.”

 

“I thought there wasn’t room for it in the budget.”

 

She taps her pen on the page. “I’m making room. If you find one you like, buy it.”

 

“I will.”

 

They work on their tasks in silence. Whenever he looks up, she’s still bent over her books, plotting and planning.

 

***

 

Before he heads off early the next morning for town to get the shuttle to Coruscant, he comes up to the manor house to say goodbye. She’s already at her desk working. He wonders if she ever went to bed. Probably not. She shakes his hand goodbye and smiles at him, but it doesn’t really reach her eyes. He holds onto her hand for a moment longer than necessary.

 

On his way outside with Mr. Finn, he says, “Make sure she eats once in a while.”

 

“I will.”

 

He even drops in on his uncle as he passes by the neighboring estate and asks the old man to visit Rey while he’s away. “Try to draw her out of herself a little.”

 

Luke agrees and asks, “How’s she been? Since the funeral?”

 

He grimaces. Luke only nods, reading him well.

 

***

 

He worries the whole time he’s away. But there’s a lot to do, lots of dealers to talk to and make connections with, lots of animals to scope out, lots of livestock auctions to attend, lots of haggling to be done.

 

He peruses droids. But then he spots something better within his price range. He buys it immediately with only a medium amount of haggling.

 

***

 

He knocks on the office door and unsurprisingly finds her busy at her desk.

 

“Yes?” she says, not looking up from her work.

 

His stomach squirms under his sweater. “Rey.”

 

She looks up immediately. “You’re back.”

 

“Just got here.”

 

“How’d it go?”

 

“A hundred ewes, five tups, four nerf cows, and fifty woolly piglets. They’re all being unloaded now.”

 

“Great, let’s go.” She pops up from her chair and pulls on her woolen wrap. “Did you find a droid?”

 

“No.”

 

“Why not?” She stills, looking at him, finally noticing. “Kylo. There’s something... _moving_ under your sweater.”

 

“Yes.”

 

She waits.

 

“Come here,” he says.

 

She raises an eyebrow at him. She slowly comes around the desk and he steps forward, coming closer to her.

 

“Put out your hands like this,” he says, showing her with one of his.

 

She mimics him, elbows by her sides, forearms out, her palms up. “This better not be a snake, you jerk.”

 

He steps close, right up to her fingertips, and lifts the hem of his sweater and a puppy falls out into her waiting arms.

 

She gasps loudly, sounding as startled as if it _were_ a snake but much more delighted. “Is this a _real dog_?” she says, her arms full of wriggling brown and white fur, her face getting covered in slobbery puppy kisses.

 

“No, it’s a fake dog,” he answers flatly.

 

“Oh shut up,” she grumbles, pressing her face to the soft fur. But then she looks up at him and she’s smiling happily. Her eyes are bright like stars and he’s flooded with relief, just seeing her smile.

 

***

 

She says he can name the puppy, a male herding collie, bred half a galaxy away just for the purpose. He defers since he bought it with her money.

 

“Chewie,” she says after a moment’s thought.

 

“Chewie?”

 

“Because he keeps chewing on the furniture legs.”

 

***

 

They start training Chewie together. Well, _he_ trains Chewie. She watches and then plays with Chewie and gives him treats and rubs his furry belly.

 

***

 

Mr. Finn brings her the day’s post – mostly bills but also a small package wrapped in brown paper with a red string around it. Rather intriguing. She opens the package immediately.

 

A book – _Xergo’s Dairy Husbandry_. Ah yes, Farmer Skywalker had told her about this when he came around last week while Kylo was away. He’d said he’d send it over, the book.

 

She hadn’t been thrilled when Farmer Skywalker showed up at her door in the middle of the day asking for tea and a chat – she was busy and didn’t like the interruption. But he’d actually turned out to be a veritable font of good information on farming techniques and their conversation was very useful in the end.

 

Farmer Skywalker had come around three times while Kylo was away, in fact. Which Rey thought was a bit excessive. But he did know an awful lot about farming.

 

She opens the cover of _Xergo’s_ and a note falls out and flutters to the floor. She plucks it up and reads it.

 

“ _Dear Madam. I hope this finds you well. Here is the book I mentioned the other day. It’s an ancient text, but it’s still the best volume on the topic and I’m sure you’ll find it helpful. No need to return it – consider it a gift from me. Best wishes, Luke Skywalker.”_

 

Well that’s very kind of him. She discards the bit of paper in the fire and sits back in her chair, turning to the book’s table of contents.

 

***

 

A few days later, the post brings another small package wrapped in brown paper with a red string around it. It gives her pause because she knows whom it’s probably from. Under the paper is a small box and inside the box is a small glass bottle of golden liquid. She pulls the bottle stopper and out wafts a spicy, lovely, concentrated scent she can’t quite place.

 

_Perfume_ , she realizes a little slowly.

 

She blinks, amazed, and sniffs the open bottle again, breathing in the heady fragrance. Even to her untrained nose, this smells...expensive.

 

She’s never seen a bottle of perfume, nor smelled one. Which is exactly what she mentioned to Luke Skywalker on one of his visits the other week. She can’t remember how it came up, but nevertheless he remembered she said it, didn’t he? And sent her some. With another note.

 

“ _Dearest Madam. I hope you’re well. I was in a shop in town the other day and they had a selection of perfumes, which reminded me of our lovely conversation. Every fine lady should have a bottle of perfume! As soon as I smelled this particular scent, I knew it would suit you. It’s made of ambergris, a rare ingredient vomited up by the cetaceans of the ocean planet[Doreen](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Doreen). I hope you like it as much as I do. Very sincerely, Luke Skywalker.”_

“Oh-kay...” she says to the empty office, capping the bottle and setting it down immediately. Sea creature vomit. That’s...unusual. Smells nice, sure. But still. Vomit.

 

She picks up the bottle with her handkerchief and puts it back in its box.

 

She’s not sure what to think about this gift. It’s rather personal, intimate, and subjective, isn’t it? But is that stranger than the fact he thought vomit would suit her particularly well?

 

***

 

She’s extremely wary when a package with red string arrives the next day. But it’s not vomit, it’s a very fine gold pen in a velvet box. It’s engraved with an intricate emblem and inscribed with words. “Presented to His Royal Highness Luke Skywalker on the Occasion of His 20th Birthday by the Corellian High Council.”

 

A royal birthday present. Something he’s had for at least forty years. And he’s given it to her. She’s even more wary now. And the note doesn’t help.

 

“ _Dearest Rey. Since our teas last week, you’ve been very much on my mind. I know it’s been a difficult time for you, but I also know things can only get better. You are an intelligent and lovely young woman with a bright future. I received the enclosed pen when I was about your age - consider it a token of my regard for you. When you have a chance, do let me know how you’re faring these days. Yours sincerely, Luke Skywalker.”_

 

***

 

He sends her a ruby and diamond necklace the next day. The teardrop-shaped ruby is very large, as big as the upper knuckle of her thumb, and surrounded by small faceted diamonds. It’s beautiful and extravagant.

 

***

 

She holds out the box with the necklace in it, loosely wrapped in the paper. “I can’t accept this. I’m very sorry.”

 

Farmer Skywalker doesn’t take the box, just smiles at her a bit indulgently. “Keep it, it’s yours.”

 

“It’s...it’s too nice, Farmer Skywalker.” She jerks the box at him again. “Please.”

 

He still doesn’t take it. “You can call me Luke, you know.”

 

She bites back an aggravated sigh and steps aside, setting the box on the table under the mirror in his entrance hall.

 

“It’s very, very lovely and I appreciate the thought. I do. But it’s far too generous. I just don’t feel comfortable accepting it,” she says, trying again. And then tacks on, “Luke.”

 

But before she knows it, Farmer Skywalker has taken her hand in both of his and is holding it gently. “But you must know, Rey. I have to tell you, I can’t keep it to myself anymore.”

 

She frowns, not sure what he means and resisting the urge to pull her hand away.

 

“I love you,” Farmer Skywalker says, “and I want to marry you.”

 

Her head spins.

 

This is not happening.

 

This is _not_ _actually happening._

 

“I know that it may seem sudden, but believe me when I say I’ve loved you since the moment I first saw you. Since the day you arrived on Stardew Grange. And I know you won’t be officially free to remarry for almost a year. But I’m hoping, my dear, that you’ll agree to marry me once that time has elapsed.”

 

Her mouth opens and closes a few times, like a fish, but no sound comes out.

 

“I don’t need an answer now, but--“

 

“No,” she blurts out. His blue eyes go wide for a moment in surprise. “I’m-I’m sorry. But I can’t marry you.”

 

“Not right now, I know--“

 

“I mean ever.”

 

He blinks. “Is it my nephew?”

 

Her face gets hot. “No. No, of course not. What I mean is, I’m _never_ going to remarry. I’ll never marry again. Not anyone. Never again,” she fumbles along. “Not after...all that happened. I’m done with love. Forever. Is what I mean.”

 

“Ah.”

 

She gently tugs her hand free. “I’m sorry. Luke.”

 

He nods slowly and she takes a step back, about to leave. But then he says, “I know you don’t love me. I do know that, I’m not an idiot. But in my world, as a member of a royal family, I know that the most successful marriages are very often built on mutual respect and political or _economic_ advantage. Love may come later, or not, but the real point is that everyone benefits from the union.”

 

Again, she doesn’t know what to say to that.

 

“You certainly wouldn’t need to be my wife in _all_ respects. I wouldn’t expect anything like _that_ , not at all. If you’re worried about that.”

 

She looks down, mortified, understanding what he means.

 

He continues, “All I’m looking for is companionship, someone to share my home and my meals with. Someone to share the last years of my life with in a friendly way. And when we marry I would sign over my entire estate to you, Rey. The farm and my fortune. I used to have more estates in other systems, but I’ve sold them off over the years, and now I’m sitting on more money than I could ever spend. You’d be the biggest landowner on Ceathea and certainly the richest woman in the system. You could run the farm however you want, I wouldn’t interfere with anything. Just think of what you could do with it all!”

 

She can’t _think_ at all, his words pinging around in her head like a rubber ball.

 

“Don’t say anything now,” he says. “Think it over.”

 

“I-I...” she chokes out.

 

He waves his hands, cutting her off. “Just--just say you’ll _consider_ it? Please?”

 

TBC.


	17. The Ball

She walks into the office with an armful of receipts and stops short. “You stole my chair,” she says wryly, grinning a little, seeing him sitting there at her desk.

 

“Yeah,” he says, not getting up.

 

She sits across the desk from him and rifles through the receipts. “I think these are all the receipts you were looking for.”

 

“Rey?”

 

“Yeah?” She looks up suddenly. “Oh, wait, I’ve been meaning to ask. If you’ve been thinking about that thing. What I suggested. Before.”

 

“What thing?”

 

“Being business partners.”

 

He has, sort of, but not figured out how to answer. Of course he wants to be her partner – in all respects – but he would rather invest not just himself but actual _capital_ into the business. That would be the most fair.

 

But at the moment he doesn’t want to talk about that.

 

Instead, he places a box on the desk. He sees how still she gets. “Where did you get this?” he asks gently.

 

“Where did you find that?” she asks.

 

“I was looking for a pen.” He opens the narrow velvet box, revealing the engraved gold pen inside. “I found one.”

 

After a long quiet moment, she sighs. He leans back in her desk chair and its hinges squeak.

 

“Your uncle gave it to me,” she answers.

 

“Yeah, I figured that.” He waits, knowing she’s not telling him all.

 

She taps the edges of the stack of receipts on the desktop, making them neat and tidy. “He asked me to marry him,” she says finally, tapping tapping tapping the stack.

 

He starts to smile, about to laugh out loud for the first time in ages, thinking she’s joking. Then she carefully lays the stack of pages down and looks at him, her face carefully impassive and he knows she’s not joking.

 

What the _fuck_.

 

“He what?” he says flatly.

 

It feels like his chair is suddenly tipping over but it’s not.

 

She starts to explain.

 

How Luke explained that in their world – his and Ben’s – aristocratic folk marry for economic reasons. How Luke is really lonely and only wants someone to keep him company, but nothing... _more_. How Luke would give everything to her and let her manage their combined estate however she wants, let her expand the business however she sees fit. How Luke asked that she give her answer at the Day of Love ball he’s holding soon.

 

He really does want to laugh. This is some sort of sick cosmic joke, right?

 

His uncle.

 

That _asshole_.

 

Instead, he says haltingly, “If you...did--“

 

“I didn’t say--” she interrupts quickly.

 

But he interrupts right back. “But if you did. Would you still want me as your business partner? Sign over half of everything to me?”

 

“Well yeah. I mean, that wouldn’t change. I’d need you.”

 

He leans forward, his elbows on the desk, hands buried in his hair and pulling on it hard, struggling to believe what he’s hearing. The suggestion that he could _profit_ from this arrangement...

 

He sits up and looks at her. “You’d marry him for his money?” he asks mildly.

 

Her mouth falls open a bit and her eyes flash with anger. “Of course not!”

 

“Then you’d marry him for love?”

 

“No, of course not.”

 

“Then it’d be for money.”

 

She smacks the desk with her palm. “No! That’s not what--“ She rolls her eyes and growls, frustrated. “It doesn’t even matter anyway because I’m not going to marry him. _Obviously_. I’m not going to marry again, not ever, I was just thinking out loud.”

 

“Oh. All right.”

 

She reaches across the desk and snaps the velvet box shut. “I’m returning that to him. In case you’re wondering.” She sighs, shaking her head. She picks up the stacks of receipts. “Now can we get back to work, please?”

 

***

 

But it keeps bothering him. The whole situation sits uneasily in his stomach for days and days.

 

The way she’s lately been _obsessed_ with expanding the business, putting her every waking moment’s effort into it...

 

He knows she’s not actually cruel or diabolical or callous – far from it. He loves her because she’s stubborn and wonderful, clever and complicated, sweet and independent, remarkable in every way. But she’s still quite young and in some ways naïve about things. He thinks she’s not always aware about how she comes across in situations. Nonetheless, he can and will forgive her anything, always. And he _knows_ her, he thinks.

 

But knowing her? The truth is he’s not convinced she’s not considering it, his uncle’s offer. The truth is he thinks she’ll accept it. And the idea of her marrying another man, his _uncle_ , and keeping him, Ben, tied to her forever via the business? He’d be making a total fool of himself over her if he went along with such madness.

 

The more his stomach roils, the more he knows it’s time. If he doesn’t do it now, he never will.

 

It’s time for him to pull himself together and put his dignity pants on and leave her.

 

***

 

“Rey.”

 

“Hey, there you are. Guess what? I think we can get a good deal on a used lev-tractor. There’s a guy on Balmorra liquidating his estate at auction next month.”

 

“Rey.”

 

“What?”

 

“I’m...I’m giving you notice.”

 

“About what?”

 

“Two weeks’ notice, I mean. That’s customary, I believe.”

 

“Two weeks’ notice for what?”

 

“Um. Two weeks’ notice before I...before I leave.”

 

“Leave to do what, though? Ben, what are you talking about?”

 

“Leave Stardew Grange.”

 

“Leave for--“

 

“There’s a company terraforming a dead planet in the Unknown Regions. They contract people to terraform individual parcels of land for them. _Huge_ parcels. You terraform the parcel, then work the land, improve it, farm it or whatever else, and share your profits with the company. Then after seven years, you own the land outright.”

 

“’You’ as in...”

 

“I’m going to sign a contract with them.”

 

“What?”

 

“I’m going to sign a contract with them.”

 

“You’re going to... You’re leaving?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Why?”

 

“I have no money, Rey. This is the only way I can start my own farm again.”

 

“But... But I’m going to sign over fifty-percent of the--“

 

“I can’t accept it. I can’t.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“Because that’s not me.”

 

“Is this... Is this because of your uncle’s offer?”

 

“No.”

 

“I told you--“

 

“It isn’t. I want my own place, I always have. You know that. Back on Jakku, I told you that.”

 

“Yeah. You did. But terraforming... It’s difficult. It’s _dangerous_.”

 

“I know. But it’s also an opportunity.”

 

“How long have you been planning this?”

 

“I’ve been _thinking_ about it. Not planning.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“There was a company rep at the Coruscant livestock fair.”

 

“And it sounded like something you’d like to do.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“I see.”

 

“I'm sorry, Rey. I know you wanted me here to help, I just--”

 

“I think you should do it.”

 

“You do?”

 

“If that’s what you’d like to do, you should go for it. I mean it.”

 

“You do?”

 

“Stop saying that.”

 

“Well I appreciate it, Rey. Very much.”

 

“I...I would never want to hold you back. You’re my best friend and I want you to be successful in anything you choose to do. I want you to be happy, Ben.”

 

“Thank you. I want the same for you.”

 

“Just... Just be careful. Don’t get yourself squished by one of those terra-dredgers.”

 

“I’ll try not to.”

 

“And send me a holovid every once in a while.”

 

“Only if you do the same.”

 

***

 

In the past – not that long ago – she would’ve lashed out at him, said something horrible and nasty to him, pushed him away. But she really doesn’t want to do that anymore. And she doesn’t want a repeat of the awful, chilly way they’d parted on Jakku. So she’s glad she’s been able to keep her head for a change. And she manages to keep herself together for the rest of the day, which she’s grateful for. She doesn’t cry until later, until she’s alone in her bed in the dark. She cries herself to sleep.

 

***

 

Dozens and dozens of boxes. Tiny, small, medium-sized, big, very big – all sizes, lots of shapes. All of them wrapped beautifully in expensive paper and real silk ribbons. No expense spared in the presentation. Just imagining what could be _inside_ all those packages, the expense and extravagance, it does his head in.

 

Beside him, his uncle looks very proud of himself, surveying this pile of presents stacked up in his private library. The old fool. The bastard. Ben knows his uncle is waiting for praise or something, for him to say he’s impressed or whatever. No fucking way. He says nothing.

 

“I also have this,” Skywalker says, pulling some pages from the folds of his robes. He unfolds the pages. “I’ve had the paperwork prepared, it’s ready to go. Everything is hers.”

 

Ben shakes his head. “And what if she says no?” he asks coolly.

 

“Well, I kept the receipts, but...we shall see,” the old man says, sounding ridiculously hopeful. Skywalker slides the paperwork back into his robes. “You’re angry, aren’t you, kid?”

 

“Who, me? About what?”

 

“Maybe that I’m giving everything to her and not to you? Maybe you expected I’d leave it all to you?”

 

He rolls his eyes. “I haven’t expected _anything_ from you in a very long time, old man.”

 

“Or maybe it’s that I asked her to marry me?”

 

He grimaces. “Nope.”

 

“I _know_ you’re mad, Ben.”

 

“Anger is my default setting when I’m around you.”

 

Skywalker chuckles at that. “Well that’s true, at least.”

 

“The _truth_ is that it doesn’t matter to me. I’m leaving Ceathea.”

 

Skywalker stares at him. “You’re leaving? Where are you going?”

 

“The Unknown Regions.”

 

“Hell, kid,” Skywalker mutters, sounding shocked. “The Unknown Regions? You’re that desperate?”

 

“There’s _opportunity_ there,” he stresses. “Good opportunity.”

 

His uncle grunts, obviously doubtful. But then he asks quietly, “Do you love her?”

 

He grinds his molars together. “I have to go home and change,” he says, lumbering over to the office door. The Day of Love ball is tonight and he really does _not_ want to attend, but he told Rey he would come.

 

“Ben. If you love her...”

 

“It _really_ doesn’t matter. And I’m leaving anyway.” He opens the door, saying as he goes, “I’ll see you later.”

 

***

 

He finds a way to show up an hour late to Luke’s Day of Love ball and slips in largely unnoticed. Luke’s grand dining room and grand front hall and grand parlor are heaving with folk – Luke’s farmhands, Rey’s farmhands, neighboring estate holders and their helpers, folk from town, some off-world guests, all sorts of people, even Rey’s lawyer Orion Tripp. He hasn’t seen so many folk in one place in a long, long time. It’s easy to go unnoticed in such a crowd. He finds the food and loads up a plate and retreats to a dim corner and stuffs his face. Mm – barbecue tip-yip wings. Tasty.

 

But he forgets tip-yip wings when he spots Rey coming down the staircase into the hall. Yes, he’s seen her in a dress before and, yes, she’s always beautiful – particularly when she’s been working outside and comes inside in the evening, tired out, her coveralls and boots splattered with mud, snow in her hair and cheeks ruddy from the cold. Tonight she’s neither muddy nor ruddy but she’s just as beautiful, refined and captivating in an elaborate black gown and long black gloves. It shows off her lovely shoulders and neck and even a bit of cleavage under some sheer lace. The way she eases down the steps, her eyes cast down demurely – probably so she doesn’t trip, to be honest – she looks like an unattainable and lonely princess from his youth.

 

Halfway down the stairs, however, she glances up and her gaze meets his immediately and she stops, her eyes getting big. Like she’s startled to see him here. But then she smiles warmly, her dimples showing, and she hurries down the rest of the steps. He watches her weave her way through the crowd, coming toward him, still smiling when she reaches his dim corner.

 

“Hello,” he greets her.

 

“I wasn’t sure you’d actually show up,” she says, snatching a cocktail weenie off his plate and popping it in her mouth.

 

“Get your own,” he says, holding his plate high over his head so she can’t reach it.

 

“You spill any of that on my dress and I will gut you like a fish,” she says.

 

“I’m real scared.” But he lowers his arm and offers her the plate again. She takes something baked in pastry that looks very yummy and puts the whole thing in her mouth. He watches, amused, as she chews and then she says something completely unintelligible, her mouth full. “What?”

 

She chews some more and swallows. “I said you look very handsome this evening.”

 

He feels like a funeral director in this dark suit – especially since it used to belong to her dead grandfather. “So do you,” he says and immediately feels dumb. “I mean beautiful,” he amends. She grins a little, flaky pastry crumbs clinging to her lips. “You look beautiful, Rey.”

 

“Thanks,” she says quietly, looking down.

 

He would like very much to tilt her face up and kiss the crumbs from her lips. Instead, he takes out his handkerchief and briskly dusts off her mouth and chin. She frowns, looking confused. “Crumbs,” he explains, feeling dumb again.

 

“Oh.”

 

They fall quiet and watch the other guests and finish off his plate of food. But when the plate is empty, nothing left to occupy them, the silence starts to grow awkward. He feels like he should say something. Like, for example, “So when exactly are you going to tell my uncle you’re definitely not going to marry him? Because you’re definitely _not_ going to marry him, right? Correct?”

 

Instead he says, “Should we dance?”

 

***

 

His very large hands are warm, as always, against her back and in her gloved hand. They step together sedately, a little stiffly, to the lilting string music filling the grand dining room. She feels how his hand on her back presses and releases, expertly leading their dance around the floor and keeping them from bumping into other couples. She’s amazed he knows how to dance and is about to ask him about it – until she remembers his upbringing. There’s probably no limit to the talents and skills he acquired living in a palace, going to a fancy boarding school.

 

She watches the other dancing couples as they turn about each other. Mr. Finn is dancing with Farmer Skywalker’s head housemaid – Miss Tico, Rey thinks her name is. Mrs. Eberle is vigorously plodding around with Mr. Ackbar, a Mon Calamari who is, unsurprisingly, the best fishmonger in town. And Miss Phasma has even found someone to take a turn with – a diminutive and ancient-looking fellow with huge pointy ears and green skin and wispy white hair. Rey doesn’t know him, nor has she encountered his species before – someone from off-world, she reckons, one of Luke’s friends. Miss Phasma towers over the odd little man and she’s sure Miss Phasma is leading, but the man doesn’t seem to mind. He looks like he’d happily be eaten alive by this giant woman.

 

She nods her head toward Miss Phasma and the little green man and says to Ben, “His ears are almost as big as yours.”

 

Ben looks where she’s indicating. He presses his lips together tightly. “Hilarious,” he deadpans.

 

She tips her head back and laughs out loud. “Sorry,” she laughs.

 

“No you’re not.”

 

“No I’m not.”

 

She laughs again and luckily he’s smiling down at her – on the inside, of course. She grins back and the moment stretches, his dark eyes turning impossibly tender and deep. Her face gets hot and her insides flutter but doesn’t look away, she lets herself fall into those eyes, letting them hold her like his hands are – warmly, steadily. He pulls her a little closer to his body and the rest of the room recedes away to nothing, the other couples far away. All she sees is him.

 

She wants to ask if he’s really leaving, but she doesn’t want to shatter the delicate bubble they’re dancing in. She lets herself move in closer still, her breasts touching his sternum, his hand coming further around her back. They step together slowly, their feet moving only a little.

 

“Rey?”

 

“Hmm?”

 

His hand squeezes her hand. “I...” She sees his Adam’s apple bob up and down. “I’ll miss you. When I go.”

 

She has to look down now. He’s really leaving, then. “You will?” she asks weakly.

 

“Very much, flower.”

 

She sighs and rests her head on his chest and lets the thick woolen fabric of his coat soak up her silent tears. “I’ll miss you, too,” she says softly, as evenly as she can manage.

 

***

 

When the lilting waltz ends, she excuses herself without looking at him. Her tears have stopped but her eyes are an undoubted giveaway.

 

She freshens up in the washroom, cooling her red eyes with a wet cloth.

 

She goes back downstairs and winds her way through the crowded rooms until she finds Luke Skywalker. He’d greeted her upon her arrival this evening, but she’s since been avoiding him. He’s about to speak but she goes first, saying plainly, “Okay. I agree.”

 

He stares at her blankly for a moment. “You agree?”

 

“Yes. When the year elapses, I’ll marry you. On the terms you described previously.”

 

His whole face lightens, his blue eyes bright, and he looks a few years younger just now. “Yes, of course! Yes. That’s wonderful, my dear!” He grabs her hands and gives them a squeeze. “Wonderful.”

 

She nods once. “We should meet with my lawyer Mr. Tripp. While he’s still here on Ceathea,” she says.

 

“Oh, indeed, yes,” Luke says and looks around eagerly, like he’s looking for Mr. Tripp right now.

 

“Not tonight, though, not here,” she says.

 

“Right, no.” Luke smiles at her and takes one of her hands again, tugs on it, tugging her a few steps along behind him. “Come.”

 

“Where--”

 

“We’ll announce the good news.”

 

“ _What_? No, please, not tonight,” she insists, pulling her hand free.

 

“But tonight is perfect, everyone’s here!”

 

“But it’s not an engagement in the usual sense--“ But he’s still moving, heading for the staircase. She’s forced to follow and grabs the sleeve of his dark robes. “No, please, let’s just keep it to ourselves for now. _Please_ , Luke.”

 

But he plows ahead and starts climbing the stairs and she lets go of his sleeve, not wanting to follow him up the steps, not wanting to stand there with him where everyone can see.

 

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Luke calls out, his voice filling the room. “Everyone, everyone, come in! I have an announcement!”

 

“ _Please_ ,” she hisses up to him.

 

The room gets even more crowded as people come in from the other rooms and she feels suddenly very trapped, hemmed in.

 

“I have a wonderful announcement!” he calls out again and the room grows quiet.

 

She stares at the floor, her mortification rising.

 

“This fine lady, whom many of you will know, my neighbor and mistress of Stardew Grange, Rey Winter-Moth Dameron, has agreed to, after a lawful waiting period of one year following the tragic, uh...well, yes, you know all that. Anyway, I’m happy to say she’s agreed to marry me!”

 

Someone behind her gasps and then the room is silent for a moment. An awkward moment that, for her, goes on forever and a day. Finally, someone starts clapping lightly and others join in and she can’t move, she can’t breathe.

 

What has she done?

 

What has she _done_?

 

But as the polite clapping fades and the amazed, derisive, confused murmuring rises, someone says loudly, over the din, “She can’t, sir. She’s _mine_.”

 

Her head snaps up and she turns around and she thinks it’s Kylo who has spoken out, Kylo who has claimed her, and relief floods through her.

 

But just as quickly, the relief runs cold, and she’s flooded with confusion and dread. Because the man pushing his way toward her through the crowd is not Kylo Ren, Ben Solo, her friend, her true--

 

It’s Poe Dameron. Her husband.

 

The room is as silent as the grave.

 

Poe comes forward. He has a beard growing now and his clothes are different, atypical for him, but of course she’d know him anywhere.

 

“Rey,” Poe Dameron says. “I’ve come for you.”

 

She stares at him vacantly, like he’s actually a ghost, like she’s locked in a dream.

 

“Come on. We’re leaving.”

 

Her knees give out. She lands on her ass on the stairs.

 

He reaches down and takes hold of her arm and tries to pull her up. “Let’s go, Rey. Come on now.”

 

She doesn’t move, a dead weight in his hand.

 

“Did you hear what I said?” he snaps, jerking on her arm hard. She flinches. “We’re going. _Now_.”

 

A sharp sound pierces the air, short and unnatural, and she smells burning, like the air is burning, and there’s suddenly a gaping hole in Poe’s chest, charred black. She blinks, not sure what’s happened.

 

Poe falls. Crumples up like an empty sack. His head bounces off the hardwood floor. He stares at her. Blank and sightless. He moves no more.

 

He’s dead, she realizes dimly.

 

Someone screams. It might be her, it might not be. Everything seems very far away or maybe like she’s encased in thick transparisteel.

 

Someone says her name and she looks up slowly and Ben is there, standing over Poe’s body. Ben looks very pale, she notes vaguely. He reaches out for her. His hands are empty.

 

A metallic clatter behind her. She looks, twisting around sluggishly. A blaster on the stairs above. At Luke Skywalker’s feet.

 

Oh.

 

Luke Skywalker just shot her dead husband and killed him.

 

She stares, waiting for this dream to end.

 

TBC.


	18. The Departure

She wakes slowly. The fire warms her. Too much. She’s too warm. Burning up. The fire smells like Tarine tea. She hurts. A lot. All over. “My leg,” she groans, scrabbling at the heavy blankets. “My leg.”

 

“Shh...shh...” The shepherd, he tries to cover her back up but she pushes at his hands. She has no strength.

 

“No, my leg, ‘s broken...”

 

“It’s fine, your leg’s fine.” The shepherd folds the blanket back, showing her. She rucks up her thin nightgown, pulling it up to her waist, exposing the whole leg and her naked crotch. He touches her knee, squeezing gently. She stares at the leg. “See? All fine.”

 

She nods and he tugs her nightgown down, covers her up. He touches her forehead. “You’re burning up, sweetheart.”

 

“Fire’s too hot.”

 

“Can you sit up for me?”

 

She grits her teeth and tries to push herself up but her arms are like wet Ossiathoran noodles. Two big hands pull her up and the shepherd drapes her against him. “Let’s get these pillows behind you,” he murmurs. He smells good. “There we go,” he says, laying her back against lots of soft pillows. Where did he get pillows in the desert?

 

“Let’s drink this, okay?”

 

He holds a cup to her lips. Spicy and bitter smelling. She sips. Tarine tea. He has her sip again.

 

“This’ll help, flower.”

 

She sips again. She stares at his strange, beautiful face. “Why’d you call me that?”

 

His hand smooths back her sweaty hair. “Because you’re a sweet desert flower. Stubborn and tough as old boots.”

 

He tips the cup and she sips more tea. “Where’s your flock?” she asks.

 

“In the meadow, just like always.”

 

“No meadows on Jakku.”

 

“Mm. You’re right. The flock’s just over the dune. BB-C4 is with them.”

 

She nods. Her head feels so heavy. “What’s your name, shepherd?”

 

He has her take another sip. “My name’s Ben.”

 

***

 

The doctor’s come and gone. He gave her a shot and the fever went down – for a few hours. It’s back now, though, and worse than ever.

 

She’s going to die, Ben knows it.

 

He doesn’t leave her for a moment, hovering at her bedside and covering her chest and neck with towels soaked in cold water, changing them every couple of minutes as she burns through them. Her thin nightgown is drenched. He sits on the edge of her mattress and wipes her sweaty, burning face with cold washcloth after cold washcloth. He murmurs nonsense to her, mostly begging her not to leave him.

 

In the middle of the night, she opens her eyes and they’re bright with fever and unfocused with delirium. She blinks at him. “Ben?”

 

“I’m here, baby.”

 

Her hand comes up and she touches his face. “Ben.” He leans into her touch. She sighs. “I love you.”

 

His chest constricts. “Shh...”

 

“Shoulda told you.”

 

He shakes his head and takes her hand away from his face, tucks it against her side. “Just rest, baby.”

 

“Shoulda told you,” she mumbles, closing her eyes. “Love you.”

 

He knows she’s out of it, too far gone to know what she’s saying. But he can’t help it – he wants to believe she might even mean it way down deep.

 

“I love you, too, Rey,” he murmurs.

 

Her eyelids flicker – she’s already under, already dreaming.

 

He leans down and kisses her softly, barely pressing. Her lips scald his.

 

He can’t stop himself from thinking that he’s kissing her goodbye.

 

***

 

He lifts his head. It’s light outside her window now. He curses to himself, panic rising, and sits up straight in the chair by her bed – he didn’t mean to nod off.

 

She’s very still and pale on the mattress. He grabs her hand. It’s cold.

 

“ _Fuck_ ,” he growls, fear and panic peaking. He leans over her, close, pressing his fingers to the pulse point on her neck and listening for her breath, but his hands are shaking and all he can hear is the blood pounding in his own ears.

 

She’s dead.

 

“No no no _please_!”

 

***

 

There’s pressure on her neck and something tickling her face. She cracks her eyes open, wondering what’s on her. Hair. Dark hair touching her face.

 

She must make some kind of sound because the hair whips away and Ben’s face is there above her, his eyes big and unblinking.

 

“What’re you doing?” she mumbles, unconcerned with what he’s doing, actually. She’s shockingly tired.

 

He blinks and stares at her. The pressure comes off her neck and he touches her face briefly. “You’ve been sick, ba--Rey.”

 

“Yeah.” She licks her dry, chapped lips. She’s so thirsty. He leans away a moment and then he’s lifting her head and holding a glass to her mouth. She sips cool water. “What day is it?” she croaks.

 

He tells her.

 

Five days. Five days since...

 

“What do you remember?” he asks, sitting on the edge of her bed.

 

She thinks. “The sheriff and constable came. They asked me questions about what happened and I wasn’t feeling well, I wanted to lie down.” She frowns, trying to remember.

 

“You collapsed. They let me bring you home.”

 

“Oh.” That makes sense. “’Cuz then I was here. I couldn’t get warm. I felt horrid. I dunno after that.”

 

He nods slowly. “How do you feel now?”

 

“Okay. Tired. Thirsty.”

 

“Oh, sorry,” he apologizes, bringing the water glass back to her, helping her drink it all.

 

“What happened since...?”

 

He shakes his head, setting the glass aside. “Don’t worry about that, just rest.”

 

“Please, Ben,” she insists.

 

He sighs. He takes her hand in both of his, resting them on his thigh. It feels good. “They buried Poe Dameron two days ago.” He swallows. “And my uncle appeared before the magistrate yesterday. He pled guilty to voluntary manslaughter. He’s--he’s awaiting sentencing.”

 

A sharp ache rips through her and she looks away, looks up at the ceiling, tears springing to her eyes.

 

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he says gently.

 

She shakes her head, turning her face away and squeezing her eyes shut as they flood with more tears. It’s _not_ okay and she certainly doesn’t deserve this beautiful man’s compassion.

 

He rubs her hand. “Shh...shh...”

 

She rolls away from him, onto her side, pressing her face into her damp pillow. He lets go of her hand when she tugs it free but he doesn’t stop touching her, rubbing her back steadily. Which only makes her cry harder. She tries to bury her sobs in her pillow.

 

She didn’t cry the first time Poe Dameron “died”. She felt awful he’d apparently killed himself – she blamed herself for that in some stupid way. But she wasn’t especially sorry he was gone from her life. She’ll never admit it, but she sort of forgot about him pretty quickly. And she’ll _really_ never admit this, but she never loved him, she knows that.

 

The truth is... She’ll _really_ never ever ever ever ever _ever_ admit this, but...she thinks she only married Poe to push Ben away.

 

So she’s not crying now because she misses Poe Dameron. Again, she does feel awful he died in that manner – it was shocking and never should’ve happened. But she doesn’t hate Luke Skywalker. She can’t say she’s even very angry with him. It’s all too tragic to be angry about.

 

It’s herself she’s angry with. That’s why she’s crying. If she hadn’t told Luke Skywalker she’d marry him, he wouldn’t have had all his hopes sky-high and made that stupid announcement and wouldn’t have gone mad when Poe showed up and wouldn’t have shot him.

 

She’s destroyed two men’s lives.

 

She shakes the bed with the force of her sobs and she curls up, trying to shrug off Ben’s soothing hand, not deserving it. But he won’t let her go.

 

***

 

His uncle shuffles in and Ben’s struck by how old he looks. He seems to have aged years and years and years in the space of three weeks. _Fuck_ – it’s only been three weeks. It seems like months ago, that night, the night of the ball.

 

He looks strange in his plain, prison-issue coveralls. Ben’s only ever seen him in those ridiculous monk-like robes, ever since he was a boy.

 

Luke sits on the bench across from him and Orion Tripp, reaching out to shake their hands. At least the guards didn’t find it necessary to keep the old man shackled.

 

“How’s Miss Rey?” his uncle asks.

 

“Fine,” he answers, not going into detail. She’s better now – not ill, at least.

 

“Good. They don’t give us much time for visits, apparently, so I’ll just get to it. I still want her to have all of my estate. It’s the least I can do for her. I killed her husband, after all. She won’t want it, I know. So you’ll have to convince her, Ben. Convince her to take it.”

 

Ben pulls his hand through his hair, pained.

 

“Please, kid.”

 

He nods. “I’ll try.”

 

“Thank you.” The old man reaches out again and grips Ben’s arm, squeezing. “I’m sorry, kid. For everything. I can’t make up for the past. Or the present, no matter how many years I’m in here. But I failed you in every way and I’m sorry.”

 

He hesitates, looking at Skywalker’s hand on his arm. Finally he lays his own hand over the old man’s liver-spotted one. “I know you are.”

 

***

 

“How can I?” Rey asks. “You should have his estate, not me. You’re his nephew.”

 

“But he’s not giving it to Mr. Solo. He’s already signed the paperwork,” Orion Tripp says, sounding put out. Ben rolls his eyes. Tripp can be remarkably obtuse.

 

“But don’t I have to, like, countersign something?” Rey asks reasonably.

 

“Not technically. Not in this system, at least.”

 

She sighs. She toys with the edge of the warm shawl spread over her lap. After a moment, she turns to him. “What do you think? What should I do?”

 

Ben shakes his head. “You have to decide--“

 

“Just tell me what to do, Ben,” she says simply. He’s about to argue with her but she suddenly looks so tired, drained. She’s been much better, her color back – though she’s not eating as much as he’d like – but he knows she’s not one-hundred percent yet. She needs to lie down. His desire to argue evaporates.

 

“You should keep it. Make it part of Stardew Grange. He wants you to have it.”

 

“All right.”

 

***

 

When Mr. Tripp is gone, Ben convinces her to take a nap. He doesn’t have to try hard, she’s very tired.

 

In her bedroom, she changes into her nightgown behind her folding screen and then lets him tuck her into bed.

 

“Thank you,” she says quietly when he brings a glass of water to her night table.

 

“Anything else?” he asks. “Warm enough?”

 

“Yeah.” She clears her throat. “Um. You know you don’t need to stay for the spring planting, right?”

 

He frowns a little. “What do you mean?”

 

“If you’re ready to go. To the Unknown Regions. I know your departure has been delayed by...by everything. I know you’re eager to get going.”

 

“No, I’m not.”

 

“Well, by the time of the planting, I’ll be all better. And the extra hands have been arranged for already, so it’ll be fine.”

 

He’s still frowning. “You don’t want me to stay?”

 

She swallows. “No. You should go whenever you like.”

 

“Is that what you want?”

 

“Yes, of course.”

 

Of course it isn’t. But Poe Dameron is dead because of her. Luke Skywalker is going to be in prison for the next seven years because of her. She’s not going to risk ruining Ben’s life, too, by keeping him here with her for one more day.

 

***

 

He follows the road, rutted by cart tracks. The sky is turquoise and the sun shines on his hair. The ever-present wind whips at his thick sweater and woolen trousers. The road rises and rises and he reaches the crest. He pauses there and looks behind him. The land slopes away in rolling green fields cut through by hedgerows. Banthas and nerfs and the kessarch flock graze.

 

He’d lingered at their final parting, under the stone arch in the farmyard. He’d hemmed and hawed a bit, waiting for her to say...something. To tell him to stay. To tell him she loved him. Something. But she hadn’t said anything like that. She’d wished him the very best of luck and reminded him to send a holovid occasionally. She’d reached out then, waiting for him to shake her hand. He’d stared at her hand, reminded of the first time he ever met her, atop a sand dune far, far away.

 

He’d grabbed her hand and pulled her to him and hugged her tight, engulfing her. Her arms had come around him and he’d felt her fingers clutch the back of his sweater. They’d stayed like that for a while. He’d breathed her in, trying to memorize her smell. He’d let her go enough to kiss her soft cheek, trying to taste her skin one last time. And then he’d released her and walked away down the road.

 

And so it’s somehow come to this.

 

He’s leaving.

 

***

 

Chewie whines at the window. He’s driving her nuts. He’s been whining and running back and forth between her feet and the window for the past forty-five minutes.

 

“Chewie! Enough!” she snaps. “He’s not coming back.”

 

The puppy whines again and lies down on the floor, chastised. That lasts three seconds and then he’s running back to the window.

 

Mr. Finn comes into the room with the tea tray she’d asked for. “You do know you’re being an idiot, right?” he says, slamming the tray down, making everything clatter.

 

She looks up sharply, startled. “Fine, I’ll stop yelling at the dog.”

 

“Not the damn dog,” Mr. Finn says, rolling his eyes. “Mr. Ren! I mean Mr. Solo. Whatever his name is!”

 

She grimaces. After what happened, after Luke’s arrest and everything that followed, everyone on Ceathea, everyone in the system, learned that lowly shepherd Kylo Ren of Stardew Grange was, in fact, Prince Ben Solo, son of Princess Leia of Alderaan. Which she’s sure he was _not_ happy about.

 

“Kylo Ren or Prince Ben of Wherever or Mr. Grumpypants McFrownyface, he _loves_ you,” Mr. Finn continues. “And you love him.”

 

She glares at him, about to refute the accusation out of habit. Mr. Finn glares right back, daring her to. She deflates. “I don’t want to ruin his life,” she says, not sure how to explain beyond that.

 

But Mr. Finn doesn’t ask what she means, he just says, “Girl. You _are_ his life. You are his _life_.”

 

Her whole chest thuds. “He said that?”

 

“Of course not!”

 

“Then how do you--“

 

“Because I have two eyeballs and they’re connected to my brain. If you let him leave this moon – which he will, because he’s big damn idiot, too – you _will_ be ruining his life. And yours.”

 

She stares at Mr. Finn, her heart pounding. He waves his hands at her. “Go, dummy!”

 

She looks to the window. Chewie gives a plaintive puppy howl and looks back at her, his big eyes pleading.

 

She thinks of hugging Ben goodbye outside, at the gate, and how they stood there for so long, and how it felt, how he felt in her arms and she in his, how it felt _right_ and then so horribly wrong when he walked away.

 

She hears the clock tick in the hallway. It sounds like the future slipping away from her.

 

She’s suddenly on her feet.

 

“I need you to get something for me,” she tells Mr. Finn. “Run up to my room, it’s in my cupboard, top shelf, on the far left. Just reach up, you’ll find it.”

 

Seven minutes later, she’s clinging for dear life to the reins of a saddled fathier as it streaks terrifyingly fast up the road, chasing down Mr. Grumpypants McFrownyface.

 

TBC.


	19. The Balmgrass Meadow

Behind him, he hears the thunder of hooves and someone calling his name. He turns. There’s a fathier _right there_ , bearing down on him like a moving mountain.

 

“ _Shit_!”

 

He only has time to scramble back a step or two before the fathier and its rider gallop by, the hairy end of the fathier’s tail flicking sharply against his shoulder as they pass.

 

The fathier finally skids to a halt ten meters further down the road and Ben can now see who the madman rider is – Rey. Who is, at the moment, rather inelegantly trying to dismount the towering animal, her ass in the air and her foot searching for the ground that isn’t there.

 

He jogs up behind her and reaches up, grabbing her hips. “I’ve got you,” he says and she lets go, lets him take her weight. He sets her down on the ground and she turns around to face him, red-faced and flustered-looking.

 

“What the hell was _that_?” he says, his voice much higher-pitched than he’d like.

 

“I know, I’m sorry! I haven’t ridden much, I haven’t quite got the hang of it. I’m sorry.”

 

“What’re you doing? What’s wrong? Is the barn on fire or something?”

 

“No, no, it’s fine, nothing’s wrong.”

 

“Okay. Good.”

 

She nods and smiles a little, strangely, her eyes flicking around, not holding his gaze. She chews her lip. Something’s wrong. He resists the urge to touch her. “Are you okay?” he asks.

 

“Don’t go.”

 

He blinks and something zips through him, gives him goosebumps under his clothes. “What?”

 

“I’ve been thinking. I, uh, I’m...” She tugs sharply on the sleeves of her wool coat. “This is stupid. You don’t need to go terraform some horrible planet on the other side of the galaxy to have your own farm. You could buy your uncle’s estate from me.”

 

His stomach sinks down towards his shoes.

 

“I would loan you the money to buy it from me and you would pay me back with interest, same as any bank. I would hold the mortgage but it would be all yours.”

 

He shoves his hands into his hair and yanks on it, stepping away from her. He’d been dragging his feet down this road, walking slower and slower, wondering why he was doing this, what the point was now that she wasn’t going to marry his uncle and hand over half his fortune on a platter. But now he remembers. Why this is for the best. Because it hurts. It hurts too much.

 

“I don’t want that,” he mumbles.

 

“I-I didn’t hear,” she says.

 

“I don’t want that,” he says clearly.

 

“Oh.” He sees her frown. Her fingers twist at the hem of her sleeve. “What do you want then?”

 

He looks off down the road toward his destination – town, then a shuttle, then another shuttle and another and another and another, all the way to the edge of the galaxy to get away from here and her.

 

And if he’s leaving anyway...

 

Fuck it.

 

“Just you,” he says plainly, his voice coming out soft. “All I want is you.”

 

He hears her breathe in sharply. But he’s not done yet.

 

“I love you, Rey. I’ve always loved you.”

 

There, now he’s done.

 

She blinks and stares at him. “You have?” she says faintly.

 

He rolls his eyes. “Of course. I asked you to marry me once upon a time.”

 

“You talked about livestock futures. Not love.”

 

He frowns, trying to remember. He was so nervous that day in her little AT-AT hut. What the hell did he say? Her gave her presents. Yes. She seemed to like them. And he gave her that necklace instead of a ring. She understood what he was asking. Even though he didn’t actually _ask_ it in so many words. And he mentioned something about the Coruscant livestock fair... His insides turn over. Oh.

 

“I should’ve,” he admits, feeling like nothing more than his own worst enemy. “I loved you then and I love you now. More than anything.”

 

“Then why are you leaving?”

 

He thinks of how to answer that. But really there’s only one answer. “Because you don’t love me,” he says.

 

“I don’t?”

 

He goes still all over, inside and out.

 

He stares at her. She’s staring back.

 

Everything feels...stopped. Poised on the cliff edge.

 

“You’re ridiculous,” he says flatly.

 

“No, you are.”

 

“Say it. Just say it, Rey.”

 

She looks down. “I-I can’t,” she stutters, almost to herself, shaking her head.

 

He teeters on the cliff edge. “Why not?”

 

“Because I’m scared,” she says to the ground.

 

“Why, though, flower?”

 

Her fingers are twisting her sleeve so hard he thinks she’ll rip it. “Because I grew up on a diet of ration packs and loneliness and abandonment,” she says shakily. She looks up. She’s pale and her eyes are wet. “And I can’t lose you,” she whispers. “I can’t. I’d die.”

 

He falls over the cliff edge and strides forward, right up to her, and grabs her shoulders. He gives her a shake, just a little one. He needs her to understand this. “You’ll never lose me.”

 

She shakes her head again and tries to look down but he won’t let her, his hand coming up to her face, cupping her smooth cheek.

 

“At home by the fire, whenever you look up, there shall I be,” he promises, ardent and adamant. “And whenever I look up, there you’ll be.”

 

She blinks and tears slip down her cheeks and her eyes are so big and pleading and frightened.

 

“You’ll never lose me, Rey,” he repeats, brushing at her tears with his thumb, brushing his thumb over her pink lips.

 

He needs to taste her again.

 

He leans close.

 

But then he feels her pressing on him, on his chest, pushing him off. He leans away immediately, his hands falling from her. He’s moving too fast, he’s already fucking this up. “I’m sorry.”

 

“Shush, you,” she scolds, digging in her coat pocket. She pulls something out, hidden in her palm, and when she opens her hand, it drops, catching on a leather cord around her finger. It swings in the air between them, entirely familiar. Yellow-green, translucent, irregularly shaped. Orkoonian desert glass.

 

Now he’s the speechless one, looking between her and the piece of glass. He touches it with his fingers.

 

“I think you better marry me, Ben Solo,” she says softly and reaches up, putting the necklace over his head and settling it around his neck. He looks at it lying against his sweater, glowing against the dark wool.

 

Her arms are still around him, her fingers tickling the back of his neck, toying with the leather thong. Her face is brilliant, glowing just for him, but she bites her lip, still uncertain.

 

His own arms band around her and press her tight up against him and he closes the final gap and kisses her, sealing his promise to her and making a new one.

 

Her lips are impossibly soft and sweet and pliant against his and he tastes salt, tastes her. She kisses him back, eager and hungry, and his knees go all wobbly. Her lips part and he slides his tongue between them, reveling in the slick, intimate feel of it. She opens her mouth and he tastes her deep and he groans or maybe it’s her, it doesn’t matter, they’re the same now.

 

Her fingers tighten in his hair and he clings to her and they kiss and kiss and it feels like _everything everything everything_.

 

***

 

In one hand, she leads the fathier into the nearest meadow. In the other hand, she leads him. She lets the fathier go, to do whatever it is fathiers do, but doesn’t let him go. She leads him to the top of the meadow and their land spreads green and growing all around them, but all he sees is Rey. His wife.

 

He doesn’t need some legal document to make it so – that’s a formality that will come later. She put a piece of glass around his neck and made him hers and she his. That’s more than good enough.

 

He sits down cross-legged in the soft balmgrass and she sits in his lap and they resume what they were doing on the road. Softly and sweetly at first. Tender, lingering kisses. Soft touches. A little shy after the intensity of the encounter on road. Getting used to this. Getting used to each other like this, after knowing each other for so long in a different way. He’s not wholly convinced he’s not asleep in his narrow, lonely bed, only dreaming all of this.

 

But it soon gets intense again, their mouths growing insistent and hungry, their hands wandering.

 

He slides his hand up her smooth leg, over her knee and under her silky skirt, making her squirm in his lap and brush against his hard cock, making him harder. He slides his hand higher, up the inside of her thigh – so _soft_ – and higher. She moans, high-pitched, and it encourages him, makes him daring. He brushes his fingers against her cunt, burning hot beneath her thin underwear, and she gasps, her mouth tearing away from his.

 

She stares at him with dark eyes and they breathe hard on each other. He keeps his fingers where they are but stilled, and tells her haltingly, “If you want – we can take things slow. We don’t have to...y’know.”

 

She digs her fingers into the front of his sweater and jerks him against her, murmuring against his lips, “Oh yes we do.”

 

Their clothes don’t last long after that.

 

He’s seen her in various states of undress before, but pulling her clothes off and getting to touch her naked body like this is something else entirely. It makes him dizzy.

 

As soon as he gets her perfect tits bare, his mouth is on one, kissing and licking around her pretty nipple, teasing her. And when he fills his mouth with her tit, when he sucks on her peaked nipple, her back arches under his hands and she pulls his hair in a delightful way, making him shiver.

 

Her skin tastes hot and ripe.

 

She smells sweaty and sexy.

 

Her bare back and ass are silk against his rough, drifting, greedy hands.

 

She makes indecent, filthy sounds in her throat.

 

He could do just this all day.

 

But she has other ideas. “I wanna look at you,” she breathes in his ear, tugging on his hair. She makes him get off her and stand up. He goes reluctantly because he’d rather have her thighs wrapped around his head right now, but he complies.

 

She lies on the grass, leaning back on her elbows, and devours every naked inch of him with her heavy gaze. He’s seen her looking at his bared body before and he liked it. But he reckons he’s getting the better view right now because her legs are spread obscenely and it’s the stuff of his every fantasy about her – her slim body on display, her pretty cunt showing pink and glistening, her perky breasts heaving.

 

She stares at his red, full cock and it throbs hard when she licks her lips a little. She says softly, “I wanna see you touch yourself.”

 

He wants to split her open with his thick length, feel her wet sex surround him, not his own hand, but he’s nonetheless happy to comply. He licks his palm and slides his hand up his dick, gripping his head, rubbing over it with his thumb, spreading the pre-come there. He strokes himself once, twice, slowly, and enjoys the way her hips squirm in the grass, the way she presses her thighs together.

 

“I need you, Rey,” he says, stroking himself again, tugging hard, starting to struggle with his control. “Please, baby.”

 

But his mistress is pitiless and rather than beckon him down between her legs, she gets up and stands before him. She steps close and pushes his hand away and strokes his cock herself. Her hand is small and he looks huge in it. Her callouses are rough against his tender skin. He groans loudly, overwhelmed, his eyes sliding closed, his hips jerking, seeking more.

 

But she lets go and slides her hands up his belly and up to his chest. She touches the desert glass lying against his skin, kisses the glass. She rubs her palms over his pecs and squeezes them gently. “You’re so beautiful,” she murmurs, tracing under the thick muscle with her thumbs. And then her tongue. She lavishes attention on them, licking and sucking on his tits the way he did hers. He’s not as sensitive there as she is, he knows, but he loves the feel of her hot, sloppy mouth on his skin and loves that she loves his body, that she wants it. Wants _him_.

 

He’s thirty-one years old and he’s never been wanted by anyone. Not ever. Not once. A stranger or two fucking him a couple times for a few minutes years ago never made him feel wanted. That weird Connix girl never made him feel wanted – stalked, yes, but not wanted.

 

No, he’s never felt this before. He was sure he never would.

 

And he always knew, he _knew_ , that he was missing out on something normal, something essential to life, something wonderful, and that made him painfully sad.

 

Now it makes him shaky with love and gratitude for his wife.

 

But he can’t take much more. She’s rubbing her belly against his dick and he’s going to come all over her in a minute. So without warning her, he grabs her round ass and hauls her up, making her wrap her legs around his hips. She clings to his neck and they’re eye to eye now. She looks as whimpering and desperate as he feels. Her cunt is dripping against the tip of his cock. It wouldn’t take much to impale her on it.

 

She kisses the corner of his mouth tenderly. “My sweet prince,” she murmurs against his skin and he feels her smile. She rests her forehead against his, rubbing her nose against his. “I love you,” she whispers, her breath on his lips. “Shoulda told you before how much I love you.”

 

His knees give out at that. He kisses her with a trembling mouth as he sinks down to the grass. She stays clung to him as leans forward and puts her on her back. She makes a needy, filthy sound, pleading wordlessly and squirming against him, and he won’t make her wait.

 

He finally slides inside her, coming home, and they groan loud together. It’s too much, too good, and his eyes squeeze closed but just for a moment because he needs to see her. Her face is scrunched up and she arches under him as he pushes all the way into her slick, hot, tight body. She drags deliciously against his throbbing cock, stretching around it. He keeps still and savors the feel of her getting used to his big thick cock filling her up completely.

 

She eases down against their grassy bed again and she blinks up at him, her eyes bright and wet. She already looks wrecked and they haven’t even begun.

 

Her hips jerk against his and she scratches his neck and begs, desperate and sweet, “ _Please_.”

 

He starts to pound into her, fucking her cunt and worshipping her body – he _worships_ her – giving her everything, all of him, and taking all of her, and he doesn’t stop, he’ll never stop, he never wants to stop.

 

***

 

Later, still on the meadow, as the sun starts to set, he starts to go down on her, kissing a trail down her body, and she gets nervous and confused and asks what he’s doing.

 

He pauses over her belly button.

 

He fucking _knew_ it.

 

Dameron was an asshole.

 

Ben resumes his journey down and takes a lot of pride and pleasure in showing Rey just what she’s been missing.

 

***

 

He tries to take her home – night has fallen, chilly, and he’s worried about her getting sick again – but she insists they stay in the meadow. She’s not ready to leave this perfect bubble yet. So he makes her put on his big sweater and then he builds a fire. He takes the blanket he’s been knitting out of his rucksack. It’s not quite done, but it’s big enough for them sit on and curl up on so the dew won’t bother them later.

 

She sits on his naked lap in front of the hot fire and he slumps over her, putting his hands under her sweater and cuddling her to his chest.

 

They sit like that for a while in easy silence, watching the fire, just like always.

 

“What are you thinking about?” he asks after a time.

 

She sighs. “Of all the time I wasted pushing you away.”

 

“Huh? Pushing me away?”

 

She nods, ashamed to admit it but not wanting to hold back from him anymore. “Because I loved you and depended on you _so_ _much_. It terrified me. So I kept trying to push you away before you decided to leave me first. Didn’t work.”

 

“But... You said you couldn’t bear to lose me.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“You couldn’t bear to lose me so you kept pushing me away?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Oh. I see.”

 

“Do you?”

 

“Not really.”

 

She laughs a little and presses her face against his neck. “We could’ve been doing this for the past year or more if I weren’t so stupid and stubborn.”

 

“Mm,” he grunts. “ _I_ was the stubborn and stupid one.”

 

“No, I was.”

 

“No, I was,” he insists.

 

“No, I was--“

 

“We both were, flower,” he concludes.

 

“Yeah,” she agrees.

 

“But it wouldn’t have been the same,” he says, rubbing her back under the sweater. “We hadn’t earned this yet.”

 

She thinks about that for a moment. “Yeah, true.” Then she grins to herself and adds, “But your dick would’ve been just as big a year ago.”

 

“Well you’re right about _that_.”

 

She tips her head back and laughs _hard_.

 

And when she can finally breathe again and wipes the tears out of her eyes and looks up at him, he’s doing something really strange.

 

He’s smiling _._

His face, his eyes, all of it, brilliant and wide, his deep dimples showing, so achingly beautiful.

 

She remembers the first and only time she saw him smile like this before and how it didn’t touch his eyes at the time and how it broke her heart.

 

Now it fills her heart and gives her life.

 

She shoves him back onto their blanket and climbs on top of him. She pulls off her sweater and takes him inside her again and rides him into the night.

***

 

In the morning, they’ll walk home together, hand in hand, leading the fathier. They’ll then spend the next several days locked in their room, fucking and touching and kissing and talking and sleeping. And maybe do some eating, courtesy of periodic tray deliveries by Mr. Finn, who will learn quickly to knock and leave the tray by the door after he gets a huge eyeful of Ben’s dick. Mr. Finn will be deeply mortified but secretly pleased for Rey. And when she and Ben finally rise from their marriage bed, she’ll contact her lawyer to have official paperwork drawn up, which will please Mr. Tripp because he loves official paperwork. And Ben will take the piece of desert glass from around his neck and put it on the diamond-tipped band saw and carefully slice it in half. He’ll then fashion a matching necklace for her with the second bit of glass.

 

But right now, Rey doesn’t know all that.

 

Right now, Ben’s cheek rests on top of her head and she knows he’s nodding off, exhausted from fucking all afternoon and evening.

 

By rights she should be dozing, too, but she’s wide awake. She just wants to stay in this time and absorb it all. Revel in the lovely ache between her legs and the strange soreness in strange places across the rest of her body. Breathe him in. Listen to his light snores. Watch how the fire makes the lumpy bit of glass around his neck glow. Replay and memorize every single thing he did to her and said to her today.

 

She never realized it could be this way with a man. Poe Dameron was always in such a _rush_ , which she first thought exciting but soon found maddening. And any pleasure she got from him was sort of just-out-of-reach and frustratingly mild, like how it was when she’d inexpertly touch herself in times past. She knows why now – because he never actually wanted her body. Or her.

 

But with Kylo, Ben, her prince, her love, her true husband, it’s _so_ different. She’s sort of surprised they’re both not dead after today, to be honest – it’s just so... _much_. Powerful. Consuming. _Complete_.

 

And she knows something else now. It couldn’t be this way with “a man”. Just one man. Just him. Her man.

 

She knows she doesn’t deserve love like this. But fuck it all, she’s going to keep it.

 

THE END.


	20. The Epilogue

She waits as calmly as she can, only fidgeting a little. A few tugs on the sleeves of her gown. A few twists of the rings around her fingers. She really wants to touch her hair – it feels like the back is coming loose but she’s probably just being paranoid.

 

She eyes the shuttle, just beginning its descent toward the landing pad twenty meters away.

 

“I don’t have a good feeling about this,” she says to the man standing beside her.

 

“Why the hell not?”

 

“I just don’t.”

 

“I thought this is what you wanted.”

 

“Yes, of course, but...” She presses her lips together, not sure she wants to say more. But he’s looking down at her expectantly, with that _look_ , that stupid wry look. “I think she’s a gold digger.”

 

“ _What_?”

 

She sighs. “Forget it.”

 

“No, no, no. You’re not getting out of a statement like _that_ so easy, princess.”

 

She grinds her molars together. “What do we even know about her? Nothing.”

 

“No, we know plenty.”

 

“’Plenty’. That our only son met her when she was some nameless scavenger orphan on Jakku, of all places. Stars only know how _else_ she was supporting herself there. I mean, _really_.”

 

Han scoffs at that, rolling his eyes.

 

“And then she convinces Ben to follow her to Ceathea to work for her as a _shepherd_? And later somehow convinces my brother to give her his whole estate, all his money, just before he shoots her husband dead in a fit of jealous rage? And then! And then! Not two months later, she gets Ben to marry her? I’ve been around rulers and royalty and politicians and _you_ my whole life. I can smell an operator from a mile away. And _she’s_ an operator.”

 

Han shakes his head. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

 

“I’m not,” she snaps, turning to face him, sticking a finger in his stupid face. “Who _is_ this girl?”

 

“She’s not some trash picking scav, princess,” Han insists, facing her square on, planting his hands on his hips. “They’ve been married three years and she’s about to have his child, for cripes sake!”

 

“Exactly. Now he’s tied to her forever. Trapped.”

 

“Holy shit.” Han scrubs a hand over his stubble. “If anything, Ben is the gold digger.”

 

Now it’s her turn to say, incredulous, “ _What_?”

 

Han shrugs. “She’s actually a terrible gold digger, if you think about it. She inherited her grandfather’s estate, so she’s already got the money. Then her first husband was some penniless drunk with gambling debts. Ben didn’t have any money either when she married him. Seems like Ben followed a rich heiress around, waiting for her to become available, convincing her to accept Luke’s fortune, and then marrying her as soon as she’d gotten even richer.”

 

“Don’t be so stupid, Han!” she growls, stamping her foot on the tarmac.

 

“And don’t ruin this, Leia. Ben’s _finally_ coming home and I don’t want you sending him running as soon as he gets here.”

 

“ _Me_? What the hell are you talking about?”

 

Han wags his finger in her face and she damn near bites it off. “You’re going to scare his wife to death and they’ll turn right around back to Ceathea and never visit here again. Is that what you want? To never see our grandchild or our son again?”

 

“If anyone is going to send him running, it’s you. Don’t start in on him, Han. Don’t tease him. He’s a sensitive and serious boy.”

 

“He’s not a boy! He’s almost thirty-five! Don’t treat him like a child.”

 

Han looks away and she jabs her finger in his chest, trying to get his attention. “You’re the one who treats him like a child. Not me.”

 

“Leia--”

 

“You do! You’re so condescending!”

 

“Leia.”

 

She jabs him again. “Look at me when I’m talking to you, Han.”

 

“Leia!” Han snaps, finally looking at her. He jerks his thumb toward the landing pad and she looks and feels the color drain from her face.

 

They’re _right there_ , already disembarked from the shuttle.

 

Her son. Her beautiful boy. Seventeen years older than the last time she saw him in person. He looks much bigger than she remembers. His striking features are more striking in person than they were in the handful of holovids he’s sent over the past three years. But the sullen, disappointed scowl on his face – that’s far too familiar.

 

And beside him, holding his hand, a tallish, pretty young woman heavy with child. Rey Winter-Moth Dameron Solo. No, no – Ben said she jettisoned those other names. Rey Solo. Looking rather nervous.

 

Cripes, Han was right but so was she – they’re _both_ going to scare these kids away forever.

 

***

 

A long time ago, in a part of the galaxy far, far away, she found him almost entirely inscrutable. She thought his flat, cool stares intimidating and impenetrable. How long ago that seems. Now it’s like she can read his every thought, her mind so close to his in some inexplicable way. Maybe it just comes from knowing him so well and from the honesty they promised to build their marriage upon.

 

So he doesn’t have to explain why he’s been moody and monosyllabic all afternoon and evening – all through the awkward reunion with his parents, all through the quiet, near-torturous dinner with them, and even after that, when they’d finally been able to retire for the night to their suite on the other side of the palace. Arriving in the middle of his parents arguing, arguing about _him_ , well she reckons it took him right back to his unhappy childhood. Made him feel like a boy again, like nothing had changed since then. Reminded him of why he left in the first place.

 

Worse, she thinks it scared him, like being visited by a curse he couldn’t run from. She knows Ben is terrified the two of them will end up like his parents. And that their son or daughter will end up like him. She’s scared of the exact same thing – that her past will become their child’s future.

 

But of course she knows – she _knows_ – none of that will happen. And she knows Ben knows it, too.

 

Still. Fear is a hard dog to shake.

 

She sets aside the datapad she’s been failing to focus on for the past thirty minutes. She watches the fire dance in the very grand, very ornate, very finely carved fireplace, so different from their rustic, sooty, stone hearth at home. She looks to the chair opposite hers, where Ben sits in his undies, hunched tensely over his knitting. She thinks he’s making a little hat. Another little hat. The thirteenth little hat. He’s been making clothes for the baby for eight months.

 

She watches his needles move lightning fast, his clever fingers rhythmic and unerring. He’s frowning at the tiny yellow cap like he can set it on fire with his glare. If anyone in the galaxy can knit _furiously_ , it’s her husband.

 

He needs to relax if this visit with his parents has any chance of succeeding even a little. And she wants it to.

 

“Ben, love?”

 

“Mm?” he grunts, not stopping.

 

“Can I ask you a question?”

 

“Yep.”

 

She looks down at herself. She’s huge these days, her thin nightclothes stretching almost to their limits. And she still has at least another month to go. She’ll be the size of a dreadnaught by then. However, it’s not all bad news. “You know how my breasts have been getting bigger and bigger and bigger these past few months?” she asks, all innocence.

 

“Yes I do,” he answers immediately, still focused on his knitting.

 

She grins to herself. “Do you think they’re big enough for you to tittie fuck me?”

 

“Yes I do,” he answers immediately and she tingles all over. He keeps knitting, the bastard, teasing her. And he goes on, all business, like he’s revising the blueprints for the new barn, “The angle might be slightly tricky at this point. And given our heights of one-hundred ninety-point-five centimeters and one-hundred seventy-point-one-eight centimeters, respectively--“

 

“You’re such an asshole,” she says, rolling her eyes.

 

“--I would have to be seated between fifty and sixty centimeters above the floor--“

 

“You’ve given this a lot of thought.”

 

“--and you’d have to be on your knees.”

 

“Oh, well, hmm... This floor looks pretty hard,” she contemplates, rubbing her chin for dramatic effect. She flops back in her chair. “Never mind then. Carry on.”

 

He finally cracks, tossing his knitting aside and standing up. “I’ll find a cushion. And a tape measure.”

 

She nearly pisses herself laughing.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the Far From the Madding Crowd In Space AU you never asked for. I'm obsessed with FFMC.


End file.
